HALF-HOTJ&S 


WITH   THE 


BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


SELECTED   AND   ARRANGED   BY 

CHARLES    MORRIS. 


VOL.  II. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY. 
1896. 


Copyright,  1886,  by  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 


ps 
£07 


V.3. 

OOE"TEIsrTS. 


SUBJECT.  AtTTHOB.  PA0B 

Pompeii  and  Heroulaneum W.  D.  HOWELLS 7 

Nancy  Blynn's  Lovers J.  T.  TROWBRIDGB 18 

Baby  Bell THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH     .  35 

Ascending  Ktaadn HENRY  DAVID  THOHEAD  .   .  39 

Impressions  of  Niagara MARGARET  FULLER  OSSOLI   .  47 

Poe THOMAS  W.  HIGGINSON  ...  57 

Review  of  the  History  of  Slavery    ....  GEORGE  BANCROFT 64 

Sam  Lawson,  the  Village  Do-Nothing     .   .  HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE    .  74 

The  Courtin' JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  .   .  87 

Primitive  Forms  of  the  Ordeal HENRY  C.  LEA 90 

The  Progress  and  Prospects  of  Literature 

in  America R.  W.  GRISWOLD 99 

Crocodiles  on  the  St.  John's WILLIAM  BARTHAM    ....  108 

Life  in  Philadelphia  in  1800 JOHN  B.  McMASTEB  ....  115 

Seeds  and  Swine FREDERICK  S.  COZZENS  .   .   .  129 

Among  the  Laurels ELIZABETH  AKERS  ALLEN    .  138 

Author-Worship HENRY  T.  TUCKEBMAN  .   .   .  142 

Religious  Experience JONATHAN  EDWARDS  ....  146 

Resolutions  for  Conduct  of  Life "                "          ....  147 

The  Freedom  of  the  Will "                "          ....  150 

The  Times  that  Tried  Men's  Soula   ....  THOMAS  PAINE 152 

The  Maiden  and  the  Rattlesnake W.  G.  SIMMS 163 

The  Sheriff  of  Calaveras BRET  HARTE 170 

Prelude  to  "  Among  the  Hills" J.  G.  WHITTIER 181 

Second  Inaugural  Address ABRAHAM  LINCOLN     ....  185 

Gettysburg  Oration "                "            ....  188 

Winter  Life  and  Scenery  in  Siberia ....  GEORGE  KENNAN 189 

A  Siberian  Aurora "              "            196 

The  Bluebird ALEXANDER  WILSON  ....  201 

A  Sojourn  in  Arcady ABBA  G.  WOOLSON «07 

3 


4  CONTENTS. 

SUBJECT.                                                                        AUTHO*.  PAOM 

Sunshine  and  Hope VARIOUS 217 

Happiness J.  R.  LOWELL 217 

Boyhood  Days WASHINGTON  ALLSTON   .   .  .  219 

Betrothed  Anew E.  C.  STEDMAN 219 

The  Wine-Cup C.  F.  HOFFMAN 220 

The  Toast MARY  KYLE  DALLAS    .   .  .  221 

Dolce  Far  Niente CHARLES  G.  HALPINE    .   .   .  222 

The  Basking  Soul ANONYMOUS 223 

Sunshine "           224 

A  Successful  Ruse JOHN  P.  KENNEDY 226 

The  Moon  in  the  Mill-Pond JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS'  .   .  238 

Life  and  Scenery  on  the  Congo HENRY  M.  STANLEY  ....  244 

The  Conditions  of  English  Thought     .   .   .  GEORGE  S.  MORRIS     ....  255 

The  Culprit  Fay JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE    .   .  265 

The  Origin  of  Language W.  D.  WHITNEY 272 

A  Declaration  of  Love W.  D.  HOWELLS 284 

Life  in  Brushland "  JOHN  DARBY" 292 

The  American  Revolution JARED  SPARKS 302 

Interview  of  Hadad  and  Tamar J.  A.  HILLHOUSE 307 

Outwitting  a  Lawyer J.  G.  HOLLAND 312 

Why  I  Left  the  Anvil ELIHU  BURRITT 326 

Our  Debt  to  our  Ancestors T.  D.  WOOLSEY 331 

Don  Quixote GEORGE  TICKNOR 339 

Kit  Carson's  Ride JOAQUIN  MILLER 346 

Through  the  Lines G.  W.  CABLE 351 

The  Light  of  the  Harem SUSAN  E.  WALLACE    ....  361 

The  Heat  and  Light  of  the  Sun C.  A.  YOUNG 375 

A  Banquet  at  Aspasia's LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD     .   .   .  380 

The  Owl-Critic JAMES  T.  FIELDS 388 

Aunt  Quimby ELIZA  LESLIE 391 

Tommy MARY  A.  DODGE 407 

Farewell  Address GEORGE  WASHINGTON    ...  416 

Winter  Pleasures E.  H.  ROLLINS 420 

Shadow  and  Grief VARIOUS 431 

The  Flight  of  Youth R.  H.  STODDAHD 431 

Resignation H.  W.  LONGFELLOW  ....  431 

The  Death-Bed JAMES  ALDRICH 432 

Perdita ANONYMOUS 433 

Nearer  Home PHCEBE  GARY 433 

The  Voiceless 0.  W.  HOLMES 434 

The  Haunted  Palace    .                            .  E.  A.  Pos    .                        .  435 


CONTENTS.  5 

SUBJECT.                                                                      AUTHOR.  PAO1 

Pomp's  Religious  Experience ANONYMOUS ,    .  437 

My  Notion  of  Music S.  P.  PAETON 442 

Boston  Blessings  and  Beans "        "       445 

Unknown  Acquaintances "        "       446 

Life  and  its  Mysteries "        "       449 

The  Ruins  of  Uxmal FELIX  L.  OSWALD 451 

Care  of  the  Body M.  V.  TERHUNE 467 

Spring-Time  and  Boyhood DONALD  G.  MITCHELL    .   .   .  475 

The  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains    .   .   .  TIMOTHY  DWICHT 483 

Song  of  the  Redwood-Tree WALT  WHITMAN 489 

Josiah  Allen's  Wife  calls  on  the  President .  MARIETTA  HOLLET    ....  494 

Deacon  Quirk's  Opinions E.  S.  PHELPS  .......  503 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


VOL.  II. 

PAGE 

FALLS  op  NIAGARA,  CANADIAN  SIDE Frontispiece. 

OLD  BARTRAM  HOUSE,  PHILADELPHIA 108 

FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE 170 

WILLIAM  D.  HOWELLS 284 

THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HAREM 363 

A  KEUNION  AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  ASPASIA  .                                 .  382 


HALF-HOURS 

WITH  THE 

BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


POMPEII  AND  HERCULANEUM. 

W.  D.  HOWELLS. 

[William  Dean  Howells,  who  has  recently  risen  into  distinguished 
prominence  as  an  American  novelist  of  the  first  order  of  ahility,  is  a 
native  of  Ohio,  where  he  was  born  in  1837.  His  works  are  somewhat 
wide  in  scope,  embracing  novels,  travels,  and  poems.  There  are  no 
more  delicate  bits  of  word-painting  than  some  of  the  scenes  in  "  Vene 
tian  Life"  and  "  Italian  Journeys,"  from  the  latter  of  which  we  offer 
a  selection.  These  are  among  his  earlier  works.  More  recently  his 
attention  has  been  given  to  fiction,  in  which  he  has  attained  a  position 
of  great  popularity.  His  method  is  to  depict  life  as  it  actually  exists, 
devoid  of  all  romance,  and  wearing  its  every-day  garb.  Yet  he  has  a 
shrewd  insight  into  character,  and  analyzes  it  with  effective  clearness. 
He  has  written  several  plays  and  short  character-dramas.] 

POMPEII  is,  in  truth,  so  full  of  marvel  and  surprise  that 
it  would  be  unreasonable  to  express  disappointment  with 
Pompeii  in  fiction.  And  yet  I  cannot  help  it.  An  exu 
berant  carelessness  of  phrase  in  most  writers  and  talkers 
who  describe  it  had  led  me  to  expect  much  more  than  it 
was  possible  to  find  there.  In  my  Pompeii  I  confess  that 
the  houses  had  no  roofs :  in  fact,  the  rafters  which  sus- 

7 


8  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [How ELLS 

tained  the  tiles  being  burnt,  how  could  the  roofs  help  fall 
ing  in  ?  But  otherwise  my  Pompeii  was  a  very  complete 
affair :  the  walls  all  rose  to  their  full  height ;  door- ways 
and  arches  were  perfect ;  the  columns  were  all  unbroken 
and  upright;  putting  roofs  on  my  Pompeii,  you  might 
have  lived  in  it  very  comfortably.  The  real  Pompeii  is 
different.  It  is  seldom  that  any  wall  is  unbroken ;  most 
columns  are  fragmentary ;  and,  though  the  ground-plan? 
are  always  distinct,  very  few  rooms  in  the  city  are  per 
feet  in  form,  and  the  whole  is  much  more  ruinous  than  1 
thought. 

But  this  ruin  once  granted,  and  the  idle  disappoint 
ment  at  its  greatness  overcome,  there  is  endless  material 
for  study,  instruction,  and  delight.  It  is  the  revelation  of 
another  life,  and  the  utterance  of  the  past  is  here  more 
perfect  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world.  Indeed,  I  think 
that  the  true  friend  of  Pompeii  should  make  it  a  matter 
of  conscience,  on  entering  the  enchanted  city,  to  cast  out 
of  his  knowledge  all  the  rubbish  that  has  fallen  into  it 
from  novels  and  travels,  and  to  keep  merely  the  facts  of 
the  town's  luxurious  life  and  agonizing  death,  with  such 
incidents  of  the  eruption  as  he  can  remember  from  the 
description  of  Pliny.  These  are  the  spells  to  which  the 
sorcery  yields,  and  with  these  in  your  thought  you  can 
rehabilitate  the  city  until  Yentisei  seems  to  be  a  valet  de 
place  of  the  first  century,  and  yourselves  a  set  of  blond 
barbarians  to  whom  he  is  showing  off  the  splendors  of 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  towns  of  the  empire  of  Titus. 
Those  sad  furrows  in  the  pavement  become  vocal  with 
the  joyous  rattle  of  chariot-wheels  on  a  sudden,  and  you 
prudently  step  up  on  the  narrow  sidewalks  and  rub  along 
by  the  little  shops  of  wine,  and  grain,  and  oil,  with  which 
the  thrifty  voluptuaries  of  Pompeii  flanked  their  street- 
doors.  The  counters  of  these  shops  run  across  their  fronts, 


HOWELLSJ        POMPEII  AND  HERCULANEUM.  9 

and  are  pierced  with  round  holes  on  the  top,  through 
which  you  see  dark  depths  of  oil  in  the  jars  below,  and 
not  sullen  lumps  of  ashes ;  those  stately  amphorae  behind 
are  full  of  wine,  and  in  the  corners  are  bags  of  wheat. 

"  This  house,  with  a  shop  on  either  side,  whose  is  it, 
XXVI.  ?" 

"It  is  the  house  of  the  great  Sallust,  my  masters. 
Would  you  like  his  autograph  ?  I  know  one  of  his  slaves 
who  would  sell  it." 

You  are  a  good  deal  stared  at,  naturally,  as  you  pass  by, 
for  people  in  Pompeii  have  not  much  to  do,  and,  besides, 
a  Briton  is  not  an  every-day  sight  there,  as  he  will  be 
one  of  these  centuries.  The  skins  of  wild  beasts  are  little 
worn  in  Pompeii ;  and  those  bold-eyed  Roman  women 
think  it  rather  odd  that  we  should  like  to  powder  our 
shaggy  heads  with  brick-dust.  However,  these  are  mat 
ters  of  taste.  "We,  for  our  part,  cannot  repress  a  feeling 
of  disgust  at  the  loungers  in  the  street,  who,  XXYI.  tells 
us,  are  all  going  to  soak  themselves  half  the  day  in  the 
baths  yonder ;  for,  if  there  is  in  Pompeii  one  thing  more 
offensive  than  another  to  our  savage  sense  of  propriety, 
it  is  the  personal  cleanliness  of  the  inhabitants.  "We  little 
know  what  a  change  for  the  better  will  be  wrought  in 
these  people  with  the  lapse  of  time,  and  that  they  will 
yet  come  to  wash  themselves  but  once  a  year,  as  we  do. 

(The  reader  may  go  on  doing  this  sort  of  thing  at  some 
length  for  himself,  and  may  imagine,  if  he  pleases,  a  boast 
ful  conversation  among  the  Pompeians  at  the  baths,  in 
which  the  barbarians  hear  how  Agricola  has  broken  the 
backbone  of  a  rebellion  in  Britain,  and  in  which  all  the 
speakers  begin  their  observations  with  "  Ho  I  my  Lepi- 
dus  I"  and  "  Ha !  my  Diomed  I"  In  the  mean  time  we 
return  to  the  present  day,  and  step  down  the  Street  of 
Plenty  along  with  Ventisei.)  .  .  . 


10  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HowELL* 

The  cotton  whitens  over  two-thirds  of  Pompeii  yet  in 
terred  :  happy  the  generation  that  lives  to  learn  the  won 
drous  secrets  of  that  sepulchre !  For,  when  you  have  once 
been  at  Pompeii,  this  phantasm  of  the  past  takes  deeper 
hold  on  your  imagination  than  any  living  city,  and  becomes 
and  is  the  metropolis  of  your  dream-land  forever.  O  mar 
vellous  city !  who  shall  reveal  the  cunning  of  your  spell  ? 
Something  not  death,  something  not  life, — something  that 
is  the  one  when  you  turn  to  determine  its  essence  as  the 
other !  What  is  it  comes  to  me  at  this  distance  of  that 
which  I  saw  in  Pompeii  ?  The  narrow  and  curving,  but 
not  crooked,  streets,  with  the  blazing  sun  of  that  Nea 
politan  November  falling  into  them,  or  clouding  their 
wheel-worn  lava  with  the  black,  black  shadows  of  the 
many-tinted  walls ;  the  houses,  and  the  gay  columns  of 
white,  yellow,  and  red ;  the  delicate  pavements  of  mosaic ; 
the  skeletons  of  dusty  cisterns  and  dead  fountains  ;  in 
animate  garden-spaces  with  pygmy  statues  suited  to  their 
littleness ;  suites  of  fairy  bedchambers,  painted  with  ex 
quisite  frescos ;  dining-halls  with  joyous  scenes  of  hunt 
and  banquet  on  their  walls;  the  ruinous  sites  of  tem 
ples  ;  the  melancholy  emptiness  of  booths  and  shops  and 
jolly  drinking-houses ;  the  lonesome  tragic  theatre,  with 
a  modern  Pompeian  drawing  water  from  a  well  there; 
the  baths  with  their  roofs  perfect  yet,  and  the  stucco 
bass-reliefs  all  but  unharmed ;  around  the  whole,  the  city 
wall  crowned  with  slender  poplars ;  outside  the  gates,  the 
long  avenue  of  tombs,  and  the  Appian  Way  stretching 
on  to  StabijB ;  and,  in  the  distance,  Vesuvius,  brown  and 
bare,  with  his  fiery  breath  scarce  visible  against  the  cloud 
less  heaven ; — these  are  the  things  that  float  before  my 
fancy  as  I  turn  back  to  look  at  myself  walking  those  en 
chanted  streets,  and  to  wonder  if  I  could  ever  have  been 
eo  blest. 


HOWKLLS]        POMPEII  AND  HERCULANEUM.  11 

For  there  is  nothing  on  the  earth,  or  under  it,  like 
Pompeii.  .  .  . 

The  plans  of  nearly  all  the  houses  in  the  city  are  alike : 
the  entrance-room  next  the  door ;  the  parlor  or  drawing- 
room  next  that ;  then  the  impluvium,  or  unroofed  space  in 
the  middle  of  the  house,  where  the  rains  were  caught  and 
drained  into  the  cistern,  and  where  the  household  used  to 
come  to  wash  itself,  primitively,  as  at  a  pump ;  the  little 
garden,  with  its  painted  columns,  behind  the  impluvium, 
and,  at  last,  the  dining-room.  There  are  minute  bed 
chambers  on  either  side,  and,  as  I  said,  a  shop  at  one  side 
in  front,  for  the  sale  of  the  master's  grain,  wine,  and  oil. 
The  pavements  of  all  the  houses  are  of  mosaic,  which,  in 
the  better  sort,  is  very  delicate  and  beautiful,  and  is  found 
sometimes  perfectly  uninjured.  An  exquisite  pattern,  often 
repeated,  is  a  ground  of  tiny  cubes  of  white  marble  with 
dots  of  black  dropped  regularly  into  it.  Of  course  there 
were  many  picturesque  and  fanciful  designs,  of  which  the 
best  have  been  removed  to  the  Museum  in  Naples;  but 
several  good  ones  are  still  left,  and  (like  that  of  the  Wild 
Boar)  give  names  to  the  houses  in  which  they  are  found. 

But,  after  all,  the  great  wonder,  the  glory,  of  these 
Pompeian  houses  is  in  their  frescos.  If  I  tried  to  give 
an  idea  of  the  luxury  of  color  in  Pompeii,  the  most  gor 
geous  adjectives  would  be  as  poorly  able  to  reproduce  a 
vivid  and  glowing  sense  of  those  hues  as  the  photography 
which  now  copies  the  drawing  of  the  decorations :  so  I  do 
not  try. 

I  know  it  is  a  cheap  and  feeble  thought,  and  yet,  let 
the  reader  please  to  consider:  A  workman  nearly  two 
thousand  years  ago  laying  upon  the  walls  those  soft  lines 
that  went  to  make  up  fauns  and  satyrs,  nymphs  and  naiads, 
heroes  and  gods  and  goddesses ;  and  getting  weary  and 
lying  down  to  sleep,  and  dreaming  of  an  eruption  of  the 


12  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOWELLB 

mountain ;  of  the  city  buried  under  a  fiery  hail,  and  slum 
bering  in  its  bed  of  ashes  seventeen  centuries  ;  then  of  its 
being  slowly  exhumed,  and,  after  another  lapse  of  years, 
of  some  one  coming  to  gather  the  shadow  of  that  dreamer's 
work  upon  a  plate  of  glass,  that  he  might  infinitely  re 
produce  it  and  sell  it  to  tourists  at  from  five  francs  to  fifty 
centimes  a  copy, — I  say,  consider  such  a  dream,  dreamed 
in  the  hot  heart  of  the  day,  after  certain  cups  of  Yesuvian 
wine !  What  a  piece  of  Katzenjammer  (I  can  use  no  milder 
term)  would  that  workman  think  it  when  he  woke  again ! 
Alas  I  what  is  history  and  the  progress  of  the  arts  and 
sciences  but  one  long  Katzenjammer  f 

Photography  cannot  give,  any  more  than  I,  the  colors 
of  the  frescos,  but  it  can  do  the  drawing  better,  and,  1 
suspect,  the  spirit  also.  I  used  the  word  workman,  and 
not  artist,  in  speaking  of  the  decoration  of  the  walls,  for 
in  most  cases  the  painter  was  only  an  artisan,  and  did  his 
work  probably  by  the  yard,  as  the  artisan  who  paints 
walls  and  ceilings  in  Italy  does  at  this  day.  But  the  old 
workman  did  his  work  much  more  skilfully  and  tastefully 
than  the  modern, — threw  on  expanses  of  mellow  color, 
delicately  panelled  off  the  places  for  the  scenes,  and  pen 
cilled  in  the  figures  and  draperies  (there  are  usually  more 
of  the  one  than  the  other)  with  a  deft  hand.  Of  course 
the  houses  of  the  rich  were  adorned  by  men  of  talent ; 
but  it  is  surprising  to  see  the  community  of  thought  and 
feeling  in  all  this  work,  whether  it  be  from  cunninger  or 
clumsier  hands.  The  subjects  are  nearly  always  chosen 
from  the  fables  of  the  gods,  and  they  are  in  illustration 
of  the  poets,  Homer  and  the  rest.  To  suit  that  soft,  lux 
urious  life  which  people  led  in  Pompeii,  the  themes  are 
commonly  amorous,  and  sometimes  not  too  chaste :  there 
is  much  of  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,  much  of  Venus  and 
Adonis,  and  Diana  bathes  a  good  deal  with  her  nymphs, — 


HOWELLS]        POMPEII  AND  HERCULANEUM.  13 

not  to  mention  frequent  representations  of  the  toilet  of 
that  beautiful  monster  which  the  lascivious  art  of  the 
time  loved  to  depict.  One  of  the  most  pleasing  of  all 
the  scenes  is  that  in  one  of  the  houses,  of  the  Judgment 
of  Paris,  in  which  the  shepherd  sits  upon  a  bank  in  an 
attitude  of  ineffable  and  flattered  importance,  with  one 
leg  carelessly  crossing  the  other,  and  both  hands  resting 
lightly  on  his  shepherd's  crook,  while  the  goddesses  before 
him  await  his  sentence.  Naturally,  the  painter  has  done 
his  best  for  the  victress  in  this  rivalry,  and  you  see 

"Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful," 

as  she  should  be,  but  with  a  warm  and  piquant  spice  of 
girlish  resentment  in  her  attitude,  that  Paris  should  pause 
for  an  instant,  which  is  altogether  delicious. 

"  And  I  beheld  great  Here's  angry  eyes." 

Awful  eyes!  How  did  the  painter  make  them?  The 
wonder  of  all  these  pagan  frescos  is  the  mystery  of  the 
eyes, — still,  beautiful,  unhuman.  You  cannot  believe  that 
it  is  wrong  for  those  tranquil-eyed  men  and  women  to  do 
evil,  they  look  so  calm  and  so  unconscious  in  it  all ;  and 
in  the  presence  of  the  celestials,  as  they  bend  upon  you 
those  eternal  orbs,  in  whose  regard  you  are  but  a  part  of 
space,  you  feel  that  here  art  has  achieved  the  unearthly. 
I  know  of  no  words  in  literature  which  give  a  sense  (noth 
ing  gives  the  idea)  of  the  stare  of  these  gods,  except  that 
magnificent  line  of  Kingsley's,  describing  the  advance 
over  the  sea  toward  Andromeda  of  the  oblivious  and 
unsympathizing  Nereids.  They  floated  slowly  up,  and 
their  eyes 

"Stared  on  her,  silent  and  still,  like  the  eyes  in  the  house  of  the 
idols." 
ii.  2 


X4  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HowELLS 

The  colors  of  this  fresco  of  the  Judgment  of  Paris  are 
still  so  fresh  and  bright  that  it  photographs  very  well ; 
but  there  are  other  frescos  wherein  there  is  more  visible 
perfection  of  line,  but  in  which  the  colors  are  so  dim  that 
they  can  only  be  reproduced  by  drawings.  One  of  these 
is  the  wounded  Adonis  cared  for  by  Yenus  and  the  Loves ; 
in  which  the  story  is  treated  with  a  playful  pathos  won 
derfully  charming.  The  fair  boy  leans  in  the  languor  of 
his  hurt  toward  Yenus,  who  sits  utterly  disconsolate  be 
side  him,  while  the  Cupids  busy  themselves  with  such 
slight  surgical  offices  as  Cupids  may  render :  one  prepares 
a  linen  bandage  for  the  wound,  another  wraps  it  round 
the  leg  of  Adonis,  another  supports  one  of  his  heavy  arms, 
another  finds  his  own  emotions  too  much  for  him  and 
pauses  to  weep.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  colors  of  this  beau 
tiful  fresco  are  grown  so  dim,  and  a  greater  pity  that  most 
of  the  other  frescos  in  Pompeii  must  share  its  fate,  and 
fade  away.  The  hues  are  vivid  when  the  walls  are  first 
uncovered  and  the  ashes  washed  from  the  pictures,  but 
then  the  malice  of  the  elements  begins  anew,  and  rain  and 
sun  draw  the  life  out  of  tints  which  the  volcano  failed  to 
obliterate.  In  nearly  all  cases  they  could  be  preserved  by 
throwing  a  roof  above  the  walls ;  and  it  is  a  wonder  that 
the  government  does  not  take  this  slight  trouble  to  save 
them. 

Among  the  frescos  which  told  no  story  but  their  own, 
we  were  most  pleased  with  one  in  a  delicately-painted 
little  bedchamber.  This  represented  an  alarmed  and  fur 
tive  man,  whom  we  at  once  pronounced  The  Belated  Hus 
band,  opening  a  door  with  a  night-latch.  Nothing  could 
have  been  better  than  this  miserable  wretch's  cowardly 
haste  and  cautious  noiselessness  in  applying  his  key:  ap 
prehension  sat  upon  his  brow,  confusion  dwelt  in  his  guilty 
eye.  He  had  been  out  till  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 


HOWKLLS]        POMPEII  AND  HERCULANEUM.  15 

electioneering  for  Pansa,  the  friend  of  the  people  ("  Pansa, 
and  Eoman  gladiators,"  "Pansa,  and  Christians  to  the 
Beasts,"  was  the  platform),  and  he  had  left  his  placens 
uxor  at  home  alone  with  the  children,  and  now  within  this 
door  that  placens  uxor  awaited  him  1  ... 

The  afternoon  on  which  we  visited  Herculaneum  was 
in  melancholy  contrast  to  the  day  we  spent  in  Pompeii. 
The  lingering  summer  had  at  last  saddened  into  something 
like  autumnal  gloom,  and  that  blue,  blue  sky  of  Naples 
was  overcast.  So,  this  second  draught  of  the  spirit  of  the 
past  had  not  only  something  of  the  insipidity  of  custom, 
but  brought  rather  a  depression  than  a  lightness  to  our 
hearts.  There  was  so  little  of  "Herculaneum :  only  a  few 
hundred  yards  square  are  exhumed,  and  we  counted  the 
houses  easily  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand,  leaving  the 
thumb  to  stand  for  the  few  rods  of  street  that,  with  its 
flagging  of  lava  and  narrow  border  of  foot-walks,  lay  be 
tween;  and  though  the  custodian,  apparently  moved  at 
our  dejection,  said  that  the  excavation  was  to  be  resumed 
the  very  next  week,  the  assurance  did  little  to  restore  our 
cheerfulness.  Indeed,  I  fancy  that  these  old  cities  must 
needs  be  seen  in  the  sunshine  by  those  who  would  feel 
what  gay  lives  they  once  led :  by  dimmer  light  they  are 
very  sullen  spectres,  and  their  doom  still  seems  to  brood 
upon  them.  I  know  that  even  Pompeii  could  not  have 
been  joyous  that  sunless  afternoon,  for  what  there  was  to 
see  of  mournful  Herculaneum  was  as  brilliant  with  colors 
as  anything  in  the  former  city.  Nay,  I  believe  that  the 
tints  of  the  frescos  and  painted  columns  were  even  brighter, 
and  that  the  walls  of  the  houses  were  far  less  ruinous,  than 
those  of  Pompeii.  But  no  house  was  wholly  freed  from 
lava,  and  the  little  street  ran  at  the  rear  of  the  buildings, 
which  were  supposed  to  front  on  some  grander  avenue  not 
yet  exhumed.  It  led  down,  as  the  custodian  pretended, 


16  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HowELLS 

to  a  wharf,  and  he  showed  an  iron  ring  in  the  wall  of  the 
House  of  Argo,  standing  at  the  end  of  the  street,  to  which, 
he  said,  his  former  fellow-citizens  used  to  fasten  their  boats, 
though  it  was  all  dry  enough  there  now. 

There  is  evidence  in  Herculaneum  of  much  more  ambi 
tious  architecture  than  seems  to  have  been  known  in  Pom 
peii.  The  ground-plan  of  the  houses  in  the  two  cities  is 
alike ;  but  in  the  former  there  was  often  a  second  story,  as 
was  proven  by  the  charred  ends  of  beams  still  protruding 
from  the  walls,  while  in  the  latter  there  is  only  one  house 
which  is  thought  to  have  aspired  to  a  second  floor.  The 
House  of  Argo  is  also  much  larger  than  any  in  Pompeii, 
and  its  appointments  were  more  magnificent.  Indeed,  wo 
imagined  that  in  this  more  purely  Greek  town  we  felt  an 
atmosphere  of  better  taste  in  everything  than  prevailed 
in  the  fashionable  Roman  watering-place,  though  this,  too, 
was  a  summer  resort  of  the  "  best  society"  of  the  empire. 
The  mosaic  pavements  were  exquisite,  and  the  little  bed 
chambers  dainty  and  delicious  in  their  decorations.  The 
lavish  delight  in  color  found  expression  in  the  vividest 
hues  upon  the  walls,  and  not  only  were  the  columns  of 
the  garden  painted,  but  the  foliage  of  the  capitals  was 
variously  tinted.  The  garden  of  the  House  of  Argo  was 
vaster  than  any  of  the  classic  world  which  we  had  yet 
seen,  and  was  superb  with  a  long  colonnade  of  unbroken 
columns.  Between  these  and  the  walls  of  the  houses  was 
a  pretty  pathway  of  mosaic,  and  in  the  midst  once  stood 
marble  tables,  under  which  the  workmen  exhuming  the 
city  found  certain  crouching  skeletons.  At  one  end  was 
the  dining-room,  of  course,  and  painted  on  the  wall  was  a 
lady  with  a  parasol. 

I  thought  all  Herculaneum  sad  enough,  but  the  prolu 
sion  of  flowers  growing  wild  in  this  garden  gave  it  a  yet 
more  tender  and  pathetic  charm.  Here— where  so  long 


Ho  WELLS]        POMPEII  AND  HERCULANEUM.  17 

ago  the  flowers  had  bloomed,  and  perished  in  the  terrible 
blossoming  of  the  mountain  that  sent  up  its  fires  in  the 
awful  similitude  of  Nature's  harmless  and  lovely  forms, 
and  showered  its  destroying  petals  all  abroad — was  it  not 
tragic  to  find  again  the  soft  tints,  the  graceful  shapes,  the 
sweet  perfumes,  of  the  earth's  immortal  life  ?  Of  them 
that  planted  and  tended  and  plucked  and  bore  in  their 
tosoms  and  twined  in  their  hair  these  fragile  children  of 
the  summer,  what  witness  in  the  world  ?  Only  the  crouch 
ing  skeletons  under  the  tables.  Alas  and  alas ! 

The  skeletons  went  with  us  throughout  Herculaneum, 
and  descended  into  the  cell,  all  green  with  damp,  under 
the  basilica,  and  lay  down,  fettered  and  manacled,  in  the 
place  of  those  found  there  beside  the  big  bronze  kettle 
in  which  the  prisoners  used  to  cook  their  dinners.  How 
ghastly  the  thought  of  it  was  !  If  we  had  really  seen  this 
kettle  and  the  skeletons  there — as  we  did  not — we  could 
not  have  suffered  more  than  we  did.  They  took  all  the 
life  out  of  the  House  of  Perseus,  and  the  beauty  from  his 
pretty  little  domestic  temple  to  the  Penates,  and  this  was 
all  there  was  left  in  Herculaneum  to  see. 

"  Is  there  nothing  else  ?"  we  demand  of  the  custodian. 

"  Signori,  this  is  all." 

"  It  is  mighty  little." 

"  Perdoni,  signori !  ma " 

"  Well,"  we  say  sourly  to  each  other,  glancing  round  at 
the  walls  of  the  pit  on  the  bottom  of  which,  the  bit  of 
city  stands,  "  it  is  a  good  thing  to  know  that  Herculaneum 
amounts  to  nothing." 


2* 


18  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.      [TBOWBKIDQB 

NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS. 

J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE. 

[The  lists  of  American  humor  are  well  and  ably  filled.  It  is  ques 
tionable  if  any  European  literature  can  vie  with  that  of  the  United 
States  in  the  variety  of  its  humorous  productions.  And  of  our  puro 
humorists,  both  in  prose  and  in  verse,  none  holds  a  higher  position  than 
John  Townsend  Trowbridge.  In  the  amusing  short  tale  he  is  an  artist 
of  great  ability,  and  some  of  his  situations  are  uproariously  funny. 
From  his  volume  entitled  "  Coupon  Bonds"  we  select,  not  the  most 
amusing  of  its  stories,  but  the  one  we  can  give  in  the  most  complete 
form.  Mr.  Trowbridge  was  born  in  Monroe  County,  New  York,  in 
1827.  He  has  contributed  much  to  periodicals,  and  several  volumes 
of  his  contributions,  in  prose  and  in  verse,  have  been  published.] 

WILLIAM  TANSLEY,  familiarly  called  Tip,  having  finished 
his  afternoon's  work  in  Judge  Boxton's  garden,  milked 
the  cows,  and  given  the  calves  and  pigs  their  supper, — 
not  forgetting  to  make  sure  of  his  own, — stole  out  of  the 
house  with  his  Sunday  jacket  and  the  secret  intention  of 
going  "  a-sparking." 

Tip's  manner  of  setting  about  this  delicate  business  was 
characteristic  of  his  native  shrewdness.  He  usually  went 
well  provided  with  gifts ;  and  on  the  present  occasion, 
before  quitting  the  Judge's  premises,  he  "  drew  upon"  a 
certain  barrel  in  the  barn,  which  was  his  bank,  where  he 
had  made,  during  the  day,  frequent  deposits  of  green  corn, 
of  the  diminutive  species  called  tucket,  smuggled  in  from 
the  garden,  and  designed  for  roasting  and  eating  with  the 
"Widow  Blynn's  pretty  daughter.  Stealthily,  in  the  dusk, 
stopping  now  and  then  to  listen,  Tip  brought  out  the  little 
milky  ears  from  beneath  the  straw,  crammed  his  pockets 
with  them,  and  packed  full  the  crown  of  his  old  straw 
hat ;  then,  with  the  sides  of  his  jacket  distended,  his  trou 
sers  bulged,  and  a  toppling  weight  on  his  head,  he  peeped 


TROWBRIDGE]       NANCY  BLFNN'S  LOVERS.  19 

cautiously  from  the  door  to  see  that  the  way  was  clear 
for  an  escape  to  the  orchard,  and  thence,  '"cross  lots,"  to 
the  Widow  Blynn's  house. 

Tip  was  creeping  furtively  behind  a  wall,  stooping,  with 
one  hand  steadying  his  hat  and  the  other  his  pockets,  when 
a  voice  called  his  name. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Cephas  Boxton.  Now,  if  there  was 
a  person  in  the  world  whom  Tip  feared  and  hated,  it  was 
"  that  Cephe,"  and  this  for  many  reasons,  the  chief  of 
which  was  that  the  Judge's  son  did,  upon  occasions,  flirt 
with  Miss  Nancy  Blynn,  who,  sharing  the  popular  preju 
dice  in  favor  of  fine  clothes  and  riches,  preferred,  appar 
ently,  a  single  passing  glance  from  Cephas  to  all  Tip's 
gifts  and  attentions. 

Tip  dropped  down  behind  the  wall. 

"  Tip  Tansley !"  again  called  the  hated  voice. 

But  the  proprietor  of  that  euphonious  name,  not  choos 
ing  to  answer  to  it,  remained  quiet,  one  hand  still  support 
ing  his  hat,  the  other  his  pockets,  while  young  Boxton,  to 
whom  glimpses  of  the  aforesaid  hat,  appearing  over  the 
edge  of  the  wall,  had  previously  been  visible,  stepped 
quickly  and  noiselessly  to  the  spot.  Tip  crouched,  with 
his  unconscious  eyes  in  the  grass ;  Cephas  watched  him 
good-humoredly,  leaning  over  the  wall. 

"  If  it  isn't  Tip,  what  is  it  ?"  And  Cephas  struck  one 
Bide  of  the  distended  jacket  with  his  cane.  An  ear  of 
corn  dropped  out.  He  struck  the  other  side,  and  out 
dropped  another  ear.  A  couple  of  smart  blows  across  the 
back  succeeded,  followed  by  more  corn ;  and  at  the  same 
time  Tip,  getting  up,  and  endeavoring  to  protect  his 
pockets,  let  go  his  hat,  which  fell  off,  spilling  its  contents 
in  the  grass. 

"  Did  you  call  ?"  gasped  the  panic-stricken  Tip. 

The  rivals  stood  with  the  wall  between  them, — as  ludi- 


20  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.      [TROWBRIDGB 

crous  a  contrast,  I  dare  assert,  as  ever  two  lovers  of  one 
woman  presented. 

Tip,  abashed  and  afraid,  brushed  the  hair  out  of  his 
eyes  and  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  look  the  hand 
some  and  smiling  Cephas  in  the  face. 

"Do  you  pretend  you  did  not  hear — with  all  these 
ears  ?"  said  the  Judge's  son. 

"  I — I  was  a-huntin'  for  a  shoe-string,"  murmured  Tip, 
casting  dismayed  glances  along  the  ground.  "  I  lost  one 
here  some'eres." 

"  Tip,"  said  Cephas,  putting  his  cane  under  Master  Tans- 
ley's  chin  to  assist  him  in  holding  up  his  head,  "  look  me  in 
the  eye,  and  tell  me, — what  is  the  difference  'twixt  you 
and  that  corn?" 

"  I  d'n'  know — what  ?"  And,  liberating  his  chin,  Tip 
dropped  his  head  again,  and  began  kicking  again  in  the 
grass  in  search  of  the  imaginary  shoe-string. 

"  That  is  lying  on  the  ground,  and  you  are  lying — on 
your  feet,"  said  Cephas. 

Tip  replied  that  he  was  going  to  the  woods  for  bean 
poles,  and  that  he  took  the  corn  to  feed  the  cattle  in  the 
"  back  pastur',  'cause  they  hooked." 

"  I  wish  you  were  as  innocent  of  hooking  as  the  cattle 
are !"  said  the  incredulous  Cephas.  "  Go  and  put  the  sad 
dle  on  Pericles." 

Tip  proceeded  in  a  straight  line  to  the  stable,  his 
pockets  dropping  corn  by  the  way ;  while  Cephas,  laugh 
ing  quietly,  walked  up  and  down  under  the  trees. 

"  Hoss's  ready,"  muttered  Tip  from  the  barn  door. 

Instead  of  leading  Pericles  out,  he  left  him  in  the  stall, 
and  climbed  up  into  the  hay-loft  to  hide,  and  brood  over 
his  misfortune  until  his  rival's  departure.  It  was  not 
alone  the  affair  of  the  stolen  corn  that  troubled  Tip ;  but 
from  the  fact  that  Pericles  was  ordered,  he  suspected  that 


TROWBRIDGE]       NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  21 

Cephas  likewise  purposed  paying  a  visit  to  Nancy  Blynn. 
Resolved  to  wait  and  watch,  he  lay  under  the  dusty  roof, 
chewing  the  bitter  cud  of  envy,  and  now  and  then  a  stem 
of  new-mown  timothy,  till  Cephas  entered  the  stalls  be 
neath,  and  said,  "Be  still!"  in  his  clear,  resonant  tones,  to 
Pericles. 

Pericles  uttered  a  quick,  low  whinny  of  recognition,  and 
ceased  pawing  the  floor. 

"  Are  you  there,  Cephas  ?"  presently  said  another  voice. 

It  was  that  of  the  Judge,  who  had  followed  his  son  into 
the  barn.  Tip  lay  with  his  elbows  on  the  hay,  and  lis 
tened. 

"  Going  to  ride,  are  you  ?    Who  saddled  this  horse  ?" 

"  Tip,"  replied  Cephas. 

"He  didn't  half  curry  him.  Wait  a  minute.  I'm 
ashamed  to  let  a  horse  go  out  looking  so." 

And  the  Judge  began  to  polish  off  Pericles  with  wispa 
of  straw. 

"  Darned  ef  I  care !"  muttered  Tip. 

"  Cephas,"  said  the  Judge,  "  I  don't  want  to  make  you 
vain,  but  I  must  say  you  ride  the  handsomest  colt  in  the 
county.  I'm  proud  of  Pericles.  Does  his  shoe  pinch  him 
lately  ?" 

"Not  since  'twas  set.  He  looks  well  enough,  father. 
Your  eyes  are  better  than  mine,"  said  Cephas,  "  if  you  can 
Bee  any  dust  on  his  coat." 

"  I  luf  to  rub  a  colt, — it  does  'em  so  much  good,"  re 
joined  the  Judge.  "  Cephas,  if  you  are  going  by  'Squire 
Stedman's,  I'd  like  to  have  you  call  and  get  that  mort 
gage." 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  ride  that  way,  father.  I'll  go  for 
it  in  the  morning,  however." 

"  Never  mind,  unless  you  happen  that  way.  Just  hand 
me  a  wisp  of  that  straw,  Cephas." 


22  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Cephas  handed  his  father  the  straw.  The  Judge  rubbed 
away  some  seconds  longer,  then  said,  carelessly,  "  If  you 
are  going  up  the  mountain,  I  wish  you  would  stop  and 
tell  Colby  I'll  take  those  lambs,  and  send  for  'em  next 
freek." 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  shall  go  as  far  as  Colby's,"  replied 
Cephas. 

"People  say" — the  Judge's  voice  changed  slightly — 
"you  don't  often  get  farther  than  the  Widow  Blynn's 
when  3'ou  travel  that  road.  How  is  it  ?" 

"  Ask  the  widow,"  said  Cephas. 

"  Ask  her  daughter,  more  like,"  rejoined  the  Judge. 

Tip  Tansley,  more  excited  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his 
life,  waited  until  the  two  had  left  the  barn  ;  then,  creeping 
over  the  hay.  hitting  his  head  in  the  dark  against  the  low 
rafters,  he  slid  from  his  hiding-place,  carefully  descended 
the  stairs,  gathered  up  what  he  could  find  of  the  scattered 
ears  of  tucket,  and  set  out  to  run  through  the  orchard 
and  across  the  fields  to  the  Widow  Blynn's  cottage.  The 
evening  was  starry,  and  the  edges  of  the  few  dark  clouds 
that  lay  low  in  the  east  predicted  the  rising  moon.  Halt 
ing  only  to  climb  fences,  or  to  pick  up  now  and  then  the 
corn  that  persisted  in  dropping  from  his  pockets,  or  to 
scrutinize  some  object  that  he  thought  looked  "  pokerish" 
in  the  dark,  prudently  shunning  the  dismal  woods  on  one 
side,  and  the  pasture  where  the  "  hooking"  cattle  were  on 
the  other,  Tip  kept  on,  'and  arrived,  all  palpitating  and 
perspiring,  at  the  widow's  house,  just  as  the  big  red  moon 
was  coming  up  amidst  the  clouds  over  the  hill.  He  had 
left  a  good  deal  of  his  corn  and  all  his  courage  behind  him 
in  his  flight ;  for  Tip,  ardently  as  he  loved  the  beautiful 
.Nancy,  could  lay  no  claim  to  her  on  the  poetical  ground 
that  "  the  brave  deserve  the  fair." 


TROWBRIDGK]       NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  23 

With,  uncertain  knuckles  Tip  rapped  on  the  humble 
door,  having  first  looked  through  the  kitchen  window 
and  seen  the  widow  sitting  within,  sewing  by  the  light  of 
a  tallow  candle. 

"  Good-evening,  William,"  said  Mrs.  Blynn,  opening  the 
door,  with  her  spectacles  on  her  forehead,  and  her  work 
gathered  up  in  her  lap  under  her  bent  figure.  "  Come  in  ; 
take  a  chair." 

"  Guess  I  can't  stop,"  replied  Tip.  sidling  into  the  room 
with  his  hat  on.  "  How's  all  the  folks  ?  Nancy  to  hum  ?" 

"  Nancy's  up-stairs ;  I'll  speak  to  her. — Nancy,"  called 
the  widow  at  the  chamber  door,  "  Tip  is  here ! — Better 
take  a  chair  while  you  stop,"  she  added,  smiling  upon  the 
visitor,  who  always,  on  arriving,  "guessed  he  couldn't 
stop,"  and  usually  ended  by  remaining  until  he  was  sent 
away. 

"  Wai,  may  as  well ;  jest  as  cheap  settin'  as  standin'," 
said  Tip,  depositing  the  burden  of  his  personality — weight, 
one  hundred  and  forty-six  pounds — upon  one  of  the  creaky, 
splint-bottomed  chairs.  "  Pooty  warm  night,  kind  o'," — 
raising  his  arm  to  wipe  his  face  with  his  sleeve;  upon 
which  an  ear  of  that  discontented  tucket  took  occasion 
to  tumble  upon  the  floor.  "  Hello !  what's  that  ?  By  gra 
cious,  if  'ta'n't  green  corn !  Got  any  fire  ?  Guess  we'll 
have  a  roast." 

And  Tip,  taking  off  his  hat,  began  to  empty  his  stuffed 
pockets  into  it. 

"  Law  me !"  said  the  widow,  squinting  over  her  work. 
"  I  thought  your  pockets  stuck  out  amazin' !  I  ha'n't  had 
the  first  taste  of  green  corn  this  year.  It's  real  kind  o' 
thoughtful  in  you,  Tip ;  but  the  fire's  all  out,  and  we  can't 
think  of  roastin'  on't  to-night,  as  I  see." 

"  Mebby  Nancy  will,"  chuckled  Tim.  "  Ain't  she  comin' 
down  ? — Any  time  to-night,  Nancy !"  cried  Tip,  raising  hia 


24  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

voice,  to  be  heard  by  his  beloved  in  her  retreat.  "  You 
do'no  what  I  brought  ye !" 

Now,  sad  as  the  truth  may  sound  to  the  reader  sympa 
thizing  with  Tip,  Nancy  cared  little  what  he  had  brought, 
and  experienced  no  very  ardent  desire  to  come  down  and 
meet  him.  She  sat  at  her  window,  looking  at  the  stars, 
and  thinking  of  somebody  who  she  had  hoped  would  visit 
her  that  night.  But  that  somebody  was  not  Tip ;  and 
although  the  first  sound  of  his  footsteps  had  set  her  heart 
fluttering  with  expectation,  his  near  approach,  breathing 
fast  and  loud,  had  given  her  a  chill  of  disappointment, 
almost  of  disgust,  and  she  now  much  preferred  her  own 
thoughts,  and  the  moonrise  through  the  trees  in  the  di 
rection  of  Judge  Boxton's  house,  to  all  the  green  corn  and 
all  the  green  lovers  in  New  England.  Her  mother,  how 
ever,  who  commiserated  Tip,  and  believed  as  much  in 
being  civil  to  neighbors  as  she  did  in  keeping  the  Sabbath, 
called  again,  and  gave  her  no  peace  until  she  had  left  the 
window,  the  moonrise,  and  her  romantic  dreams,  and  de 
scended  into  the  prosaic  atmosphere  of  the  kitchen  and 
of  Tip  and  his  corn. 

How  lovely  she  looked,  to  Tip's  eyes  !  Her  plain,  neat 
calico  gown,  enfolding  a  wonderful  little  rounded  embodi 
ment  of  grace  and  beauty,  seemed  to  him  an  attire  fit  for 
any  queen  or  fairy  that  ever  lived.  But  it  was  the  same 
old  tragic  story  over  again :  although  Tip  loved  Nancy, 
Nancy  loved  not  Tip.  However  he  might  flatter  himself, 
her  regard  for  him  was  on  the  cool  side  of  sisterly, — sim 
ply  the  toleration  of  a  kindly  heart  for  one  who  was  not 
to  blame  for  being  less  bright  than  other  people. 

She  took  her  sewing  and  sat  by  the  table,  oh,  so  beau 
tiful  !  Tip  thought,  and  enveloped  in  a  charmed  atmos 
phere  which  seemed  to  touch  and  transfigure  every 
object  except  himself.  The  humble  apartment,  the  splint- 


TROWBKIDGE]       NANCY  BLFNN'S  LOVERS.  25 

bottomed  chairs,  the  stockings  drying  on  the  pole,  even 
the  widow's  cap  and  gown,  and  the  old  black  snuffers  on 
the  table, — all,  save  poor,  homely  Tip,  stole  a  ray  of  grace 
from  the  halo  of  her  loveliness. 

Nancy  discouraged  the  proposition  of  roasting  corn, 
and  otherwise  deeply  grieved  her  visitor  by  intently  work 
ing  and  thinking,  instead  of  taking  part  in  the  conversa 
tion.  At  length  a  bright  idea  occurred  to  him. 

"  Got  a  slate  and  pencil  ?" 

The  widow  furnished  the  required  articles.  He  then 
found  a  book,  and,  using  the  cover  as  a  rule,  marked  out 
the  plan  of  a  game. 

"Fox  and  geese,  Nancy;  ye  play?"  And,  having 
pricked  off  a  sufficient  number  of  kernels  from  one  of  the 
ears  of  corn,  and  placed  them  upon  the  slate  for  geese,  he 
selected  the  largest  he  could  find  for  a  fox,  stuck  it  upon 
a  pin,  and  proceeded  to  roast  it  in  the  candle. 

"  Which'll  ye  have,  Nancy  ?" — pushing  the  slate  toward 
her :  "  take  your  choice,  and  give  me  the  geese  ;  then  beat 
me  if  you  can  !  Come,  won't  ye  play  ?" 

"Oh,  dear,  Tip,  what  a  tease  you  are !"  said  Nancy.  "  I 
don't  want  to  play.  I  must  work.  Get  mother  to  play 
with  you,  Tip." 

"She  don't  wanter!"  exclaimed  Tip.  "Come,  Nancy; 
then  I'll  tell  ye  suthin'  I  heard  jest  'fore  I  come  away, — 
euthin'  'bout  you !" 

And  Tip,  assuming  a  careless  air,  proceeded  to  pile  up 
the  ears  of  corn,  log-house  fashion,  upon  the  table,  while 
Nancy  was  finishing  her  seam. 

"  About  me  ?"  she  echoed. 

"You'd  ha'  thought  so!"  said  Tip,  slyly  glancing  over 
the  corn  as  he  spoke,  to  watch  the  effect  on  Nancy. 
"  Cephe  and  the  old  man  had  the  all-firedest  row,  tell 
you !" 

II. — B  3 


26  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.      [TROWBRIDGB 

He  hitched  around  in  his  chair,  and,  resting  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  looked  up,  shrewd  and  grinning,  into  her 
face. 

"  William  Tansley,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  As  if  you  couldn't  guess !  Cephe  was  comin'  to  see 
you  to-night;  but  he  won't,"  chuckled  Tip.  "Say!  ye 
veady  for  fox  and  geese  ?" 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?"  demanded  Nancy. 

"  'Cause  I  heard  I  The  old  man  stopped  him,  and  Cephe 
was  goin'  to  ride  over  him,  but  the  old  man  was  too  much 
for  him ;  he  jerked  him  off  the  hoss,  and  there  they  had 
it,  lickety-switch,  rough-and-tumble,  till  Cephe  give  in,  and 
told  the  old  man,  ruther'n  have  any  words,  he'd  promise 
never  to  come  and  see  you  ag'in  if  he'd  give  him  three 
thousand  dollars ;  and  the  old  man  said  'twas  a  bargain !" 

"Is  that  true,  Tip?"  cried  the  widow,  dropping  her 
work  and  raising  her  hands. 

"  True  as  I  live  and  breathe,  and  draw  the  breath  of  life, 
and  have  a  livin'  bein"  I"  Tip  solemnly  affirmed. 

"Just  as  I  always  told  you,  Nancy!"  exclaimed  the 
widow.  "  I  knew  how  it  would  be.  I  felt  sartin  Cephas 
couldn't  be  depended  upon.  His  father  never'd  hear  a 
word  to  it,  I  always  said.  Now  don't  feel  bad,  Nancy ; 
don't  mind  it.  It'll  be  all  for  the  best,  I  hope.  Now, 
don't,  Nancy ;  don't,  I  beg  and  beseech." 

She  saw  plainly  by  the  convulsive  movement  of  the 
girl's  bosom  and  the  quivering  of  her  lip  that  some  pas 
sionate  demonstration  was  threatened.  Tip  meanwhile 
had  advanced  his  chair  still  nearer,  contorting  his  neck 
and  looking  up  with  leering  malice  into  her  face  until  his 
nose  almost  touched  her  cheek. 

"  What  do  ye  think  now  of  Cephe  Boxton  ?"  he  asked, 
tauntingly ;  "  hey  ?" 

A  stinging  blow  upon  the  ear  rewarded  his  impertinence, 


TROWBRIDGE]       NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  27 

aud  he  recoiled  so  suddenly  that  his  chair  went  over  and 
threw  him  sprawling  upon  the  floor. 

"  Gosh  all  hemlock !"  he  muttered,  scrambling  to  his 
feet,  rubbing  first  his  elbow,  then  his  ear.  "  What's  that 
fur,  I'd  like  to  know, — knockin'  a  feller  down?" 

"  What  do  I  think  of  Cephas  Boxton  ?"  cried  Nancy. 
"  I  think  the  same  I  did  before, — why  shouldn't  I  ? 
Your  slander  is  no  slander.  Now  sit  down  and  behave 
yourself,  and  don't  put  your  face  too  near  mine,  if  you 
don't  want  your  ears  boxed !" 

"  Why,  Nancy,  how  could  you  ?"  groaned  the  widow. 

Nancy  made  no  reply,  but  resumed  her  work  very  much 
as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

"  Hurt  you  much,  William  ?" 

"Not  much;  only  it  made  my  elbow  sing  like  all  Je- 
rewsalem !  Never  mind ;  she'll  find  out !  Where's  my 
hat?" 

"  You  ain't  going,  be  ye  ?"  said  Mrs.  Blynn,  with  an  air 
of  solicitude. 

"  I  guess  I  ain't  wanted  here,"  mumbled  Tip,  pulling  his 
hat  over  his  ears.  He  struck  the  slate,  scattering  the  fox 
and  geese,  and  demolished  the  house  of  green  corn.  "  You 
can  keep  that ;  I  don't  want  it.  Good-night,  Miss  Blynn." 

Tip  placed  peculiar  emphasis  upon  the  name,  and  fum 
bled  a  good  while  with  the  latch,  expecting  Nancy  would 
say  something ;  but  she  maintained  a  cool  and  dignified 
silence,  and,  as  nobody  urged  him  to  stay,  he  reluctantly 
departed,  his  heart  full  of  injury,  and  his  hopes  collapsed 
like  his  pockets. 

For  some  minutes  Nancy  continued  to  sew  intently  and 
fast,  her  flushed  face  bowed  over  the  seam  ;  then  suddenly 
her  eyes  blurred,  her  fingers  forgot  their  cunning,  the 
needle  shot  blindly  hither  and  thither,  and  the  quickly- 
drawn  thread  snapped  in  twain. 


28  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.     [TROWRRIDGK 

"  Nancy !  Nancy !  don't !"  pleaded  Mrs.  Blynn ;  "  I  beg 
of  ye,  now  don't !" 

"  Oh,  mother,"  burst  forth  the  young  girl,  with  sobs, 
•'  I  am  so  unhappy !  "What  did  I  strike  poor  Tip  for  ?  Ho 
did  not  know  any  better.  I  am  always  doing  something 
so  wrong !  He  could  not  have  made  up  the  story.  Cephas 
would  have  come  here  to-night, — I  know  he  would." 

"Poor  child!  poor  child!"  said  Mrs.  Blynn.  "Why 
couldn't  you  hear  to  me  ?  I  always  told  you  to  be  carefu, 
and  not  like  Cephas  too  well.  But  maybe  Tip  didn't  un 
derstand.  Maybe  Cephas  will  come  to-morrow,  and  then 
all  will  be  explained." 

"Cephas  is  true,  I  know,  I  know!"  wept  Nancy,  "but 

his  father " 

ft         $         $         *£         £         $         £         $        * 

One  evening  it  was  stormy,  and  Nancy  and  her  mother 
were  together  in  the  plain,  tidy  kitchen,  both  sewing  and 
both  silent;  gusts  of  rain  lashing  the  windows,  and  the 
cat  purring  in  a  chair.  Nancy's  heart  was  more  quiet 
than  usual ;  for,  although  expectation  was  not  quite  ex 
tinct,  no  visitor  surely  could  be  looked  for  on  such  a  night. 
Suddenly,  however,  amidst  the  sounds  of  the  storm,  she 
heard  footsteps  and  a  knock  at  the  door.  Yet  she  need 
not  have  started  and  changed  color  so  tumultuously,  for 
the  visitor  was  only  Tip. 

"  Good-evenin',"  said  young  Master  Tansley,  stamping, 
pulling  off  his  dripping  hat,  and  shaking  it.  "  I'd  no  idee 
it  rained  so!  I  was  goin'  by,  and  thought  I'd  stop  in. 
Ye  mad,  Nancy  ?"  And  he  peered  at  the  young  girl  from 
beneath  his  wet  hair  with  a  bashful  grin. 

Nancy's  heart  was  too  much  softened  to  cherish  any 
resentment,  and  with  suffused  eyes  she  begged  Tip  to  for 
give  the  blow. 

"  Wai,  I  do'no'  what  I'd  done  to  be  knocked  down  fur," 


IROWBRIBGE]       NANCF  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  29 

began  Tip,  with  a  pouting  and  aggrieved  air  ;  "  though  I 
e'pose  I  dew,  tew.  But  I  guess  what  I  told  ye  turned  out 
about  so,  after  all;  didn't  it,  hey?" 

At  Nancy's  look  of  distress,  Mrs.  Blynn  made  signs  for 
Tip  to  forbear.  But  he  had  come  too  far  through  the 
darkness  and  rain  with  an  exciting  piece  of  news  to  bo 
thus  easily  silenced. 

"  I  ha'n't  brought  ye  no  corn  this  time,  for  I  didn't  know 
as  you'd  roast  it  if  I  did.  Say,  Nancy !  Cephe  and  the 
old  man  had  it  ag'in  to-day ;  and  the  Judge  forked  over 
the  three  thousand  dollars ;  I  seen  him !  He  was  only 
waitin'  to  raise  it.  It's  real  mean  in  Cephe,  I  s'pose  you 
think.  Mebby  'tis ;  but,  by  gracious !  three  thousand 
dollars  is  a  'tarnal  slue  of  money !" 

Hugely  satisfied  with  the  effect  this  announcement  pro 
duced,  Tip  sprawled  upon  a  chair  and  chewed  a  stick, 
like  one  resolved  to  make  himself  comfortable  for  the 
evening. 

"  Saxafrax, — ye  want  some  ?"  he  said,  breaking  off  with 
his  teeth  a  liberal  piece  of  the  stick.  "  Say,  Nancy !  ye 
needn't  look  so  mad.  Cephe  has  sold  out,  I  tell  ye ;  and 
when  I  offer  ye  saxafrax  ye  may  as  well  take  some." 

Not  without  effort  Nancy  held  her  peace ;  and  Tip,  ex 
tending  the  fragment  of  the  sassafras-root  which  his  teeth 
had  split  off,  was  complacently  urging  her  to  accept  it, — 
"  'Twas  real  good," — when  the  sound  of  hoofs  was  heard ; 
a  halt  at  the  gate ;  a  horseman  dismounting,  leading  his 
animal  to  the  shed;  a  voice  saying,  "Be  still,  Pericles!" 
and  footsteps  approaching  the  door. 

"Nancy!  Nancy!"  articulated  Mrs.  Blynn,  scarcely  less 
agitated  than  her  daughter,  "  he  has  come !" 

"  It's  Cephe !"  whispered  Tip,  hoarsely.  "  If  he  should 
ketch  me  here !  I — I  guess  I'll  go !  Confound  that  Cephe, 
anyhow !" 

n.  3* 


30  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.     [TROWBRIDGK 

Rap,  rap !  two  light,  decisive  strokes  of  a  riding-whip 
on  the  kitchen  door. 

Mrs.  Blynn  glanced  around  to  see  if  everything  was  tidy ; 
and  Tip,  dropping  his  sassafras,  whirled  about  and  wheeled 
about  like  Jim  Crow  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment. 

"  Mother,  go !"  uttered  Nancy,  pale  with  emotion,  hur 
riedly  pointing  to  the  door. 

She  made  her  escape  by  the  stairway ;  observing  which, 
the  bewildered  Tip,  who  had  indulged  a  frantic  thought 
of  leaping  from  the  window  to  avoid  meeting  his  dread 
rival,  changed  his  mind  and  rushed  after  her.  Unadvised 
of  his  intention,  and  thinking  only  of  shutting  herself  from 
the  sight  of  young  Boxton,  Nancy  closed  the  kitchen  door 
rather  severely  upon  Tip's  fingers ;  but  his  fear  rendered 
him  insensible  to  pain,  and  he  followed  her,  scrambling  up 
the  dark  staircase  just  as  Mrs.  Blynn  admitted  Cephas. 

Nancy  did  not  immediately  perceive  what  had  occurred  ; 
but  presently,  amidst  the  sounds  of  the  rain  on  the  roof 
and  of  the  wind  about  the  gables,  she  heard  the  unmis 
takable  perturbed  breathing  of  her  luckless  lover. 

"Nancy,"  whispered  Tip,  "where  be  ye?  I've  'most 
broke  my  head  ag'in'  this  blasted  beam !" 

"  What  are  you  here  for  ?"  demanded  Nancy. 

"  'Cause  I  didn't  want  him  to  see  me.  He  won't  stop 
but  a  minute  ;  then  I'll  go  down.  I  did  give  my  head  the 
all-firedest  tunk !"  said  Tip. 

Mrs.  Blynn  opened  the  door  to  inform  Nancy  of  the 
arrival  of  her  visitor,  and  the  light  from  below,  partially 
illuminating  the  fugitive's  retreat,  showed  Tip  in  a  sitting 
posture  on  one  of  the  upper  stairs,  diligently  rubbing  that 
portion  of  his  cranium  which  had  come  in  collision  with 
the  beam. 

"  Say,  Nancy,  don't  go  I"  whispered  Tip ;  "  don't  leave 
me  here  in  the  dark !" 


NANCT  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  31 

Nancy  had  too  many  tumultuous  thoughts  of  her  own 
to  give  much  heed  to  his  distress;  and,  having  hastily 
arranged  her  hau-  and  dress  by  the  sense  of  touch,  she 
glided  by  him,  bidding  him  keep  quiet,  and  descended  the 
stairs  to  the  door,  which  she  closed  after  her,  leaving 
him  to  the  wretched  solitude  of  the  place,  which  ap 
peared  to  him  a  hundredfold  more  dark  and  dreadful  than 
before. 

Cephas  in  the  mean  time  had  divested  himself  of  his 
oil-cloth  capote,  and  entered  the  neat  little  sitting-room, 
to  which  he  was  civilly  shown  by  the  widow.  "  Nancy'll 
be  down  in  a  minute."  And,  placing  a  candle  upon  the 
mantel-piece,  Mrs.  Blynn  withdrew. 

Nancy,  having  regained  her  self-possession,  appeared 
mighty  dignified  before  her  lover;  gave  him  a  passive 
hand;  declined,  with  averted  head,  his  proffered  kiss;  and 
seated  herself  at  a  cool  and  respectable  distance. 

"Nancy,  what  is  the  matter?"  said  Cephas,  in  mingled 
amazement  and  alarm.  "  You  act  as  though  I  was  a  ped 
dler  and  you  didn't  care  to  trade." 

"  You  can  trade,  sir,  you  can  make  what  bargains  you 

please,  with  others ;  but "  Nancy's  aching  and  swelling 

heart  came  up  and  choked  her. 

"  Nancy  !  what  have  I  done  ?  "What  has  changed  you 
so?  Have  you  forgotten — the  last  time  I  was  here?" 

"  'Twould  not  be  strange  if  I  had,  it  was  so  long  ago !" 

Poor  Nancy  spoke  cuttingly ;  but  her  sarcasm  was  as  a 
sword  with  two  points,  which  pierced  her  own  heart  quite 
as  much  as  it  wounded  her  lover's. 

"  Nancy,"  said  Cephas,  and  he  took  her  hand  again,  so 
tenderly  that  it  was  like  putting  heaven  away  to  with 
draw  it,  "  couldn't  you  trust  me  ?  Hasn't  your  heart  as 
sured  you  that  I  could  never  stay  away  from  you  so  with 
out  good  reasons  ?" 


32  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.     [TROWBRII>GE 

"Oh,  I  don't  doubt  but  you  had  reasons!"  replied 
Nancy,  with  a  bursting  anguish  in  her  tones.  "  But  such 
reasons  1" 

"  Such  reasons  ?"  repeated  Cephas,  grieved  and  repelled. 
"  Will  you  please  inform  me  what  you  mean  ?  For,  as  I 
live,  I  am  ignorant." 

"  Ah,  Cephas !  it  is  not  true,  then,"  cried  Nancy,  with 
sudden  hope,  "  that — your  father " 

"What  of  my  father?" 


"  That  he  has  offered  you  money " 

A  vivid  emotion  flashed  across  the  young  man's  face. 

"  I  would  have  preferred  to  tell  you  without  being  ques 
tioned  so  sharply,"  he  replied.  "  But,  since  hearsay  has 
got  the  start  of  me  and  brought  you  the  news,  I  can  only 
answer — he  has  offered  me  money." 

"  To  buy  you — to  hire  you " 

"  Not  to  marry  any  poor  girl :  that's  the  bargain, 
Nancy,"  said  Cephas,  with  the  tenderest  of  smiles. 

"  And  you  have  accepted  ?"  cried  Nancy,  quickly. 

"  I  have  accepted,"  responded  Cephas. 

Nancy  uttered  not  a  word. 

"I  came  to  tell  you  all  this;  but  I  should  have  told 
you  in  a  different  way,  could  I  have  had  my  choice," 
said  Cephas.  "  What  I  have  done  is  for  your  happiness 
as  much  as  my  own.  My  father  threatened  to  disin 
herit  me  if  I  married  a  poor  girl ;  and  how  could  I  bear 
the  thought  of  subjecting  you  to  such  a  lot?  He  has 
given  me  three  thousand  dollars ;  I  only  received  it  to 
day,  or  I  should  have  come  to  you  before;  for,  Nancy, 
— do  not  look  so  strange ! — it  is  for  you,  this  money, — do 
you  hear?" 

He  attempted  to  draw  her  towards  him,  but  she  sprang 
indignantly  to  her  feet. 

'*  Cephas !  you  offer  me  money !" 


TROWBKIDGE]       NANCY  BLYNN'S  LOVERS.  33 

"  Nancy !" — Cephas  caught  her  and  folded  her  in  his 
arms, — "  don't  you  understand  ?  It  is  your  dowry !  You 
are  no  longer  a  poor  girl.  I  promised  not  to  marry  any 
poor  girl,  but  I  never  promised  not  to  marry  you.  Accept 
the  dowry;  then  you  will  be  a  rich  girl,  and — my  wife, 
my  wife,  Nancy !" 

"  Oh,  Cephas !  is  it  true  ?  Let  me  look  at  you !"  She 
held  him  firmly,  and  looked  into  his  face,  and  into  his  deep, 
tender  eyes.  "  It  is  true !" 

What  more  was  said  or  done  I  am  unable  to  relate ;  for 
about  this  time  there  came  from  another  part  of  the  house 
a  dull,  reverberating  sound,  succeeded  by  a  rapid  series  of 
concussions,  as  of  some  ponderous  body  descending  in  a 
swift  but  irregular  manner  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs.  It  was  Master  William  Tansley,  who,  groping 
about  in  the  dark  with  intent  to  find  a  stove-pipe  hole  at 
which  to  listen,  had  lost  his  latitude  and  his  equilibrium, 
and  tumbled  from  landing  to  landing,  in  obedience  to  the 
dangerous  laws  of  gravitation.  Mrs.  Blynn  flew  to  open 
the  door ;  found  him  helplessly  kicking  on  his  back,  with 
his  head  in  the  rag-bag ;  drew  him  forth  by  one  arm ;  as 
certained  that  he  had  met  with  no  injuries  which  a  little 
salve  would  not  heal ;  patched  him  up  almost  as  good  <vs 
new ;  gave  him  her  sympathy  and  a  lantern  to  go  homo 
with ;  and  kindly  bade  him  good-night. 

So  ended  Tip  Tansley's  unfortunate  love-affair;  and  I 
am  pleased  to  relate  that  his  broken  heart  recovered  from 
its  hurt  almost  as  speedily  as  his  broken  head. 

A  month  later  the  village  clergyman  was  called  to  ad 
minister  the  vows  of  wedlock  to  a  pair  of  happy  lovers 
in  the  Widow  Blynn's  cottage;  and  the  next  morning 
there  went  abroad  the  report  of  a  marriage  which  sur 
prised  the  good  people  of  the  parish  generally,  and  Judge 
Boxton  more  particularly. 

II. C 


34  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.     [TROWBRIDOE 

In  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  Cephas  rode  home  to  pay 
his  respects  to  the  old  gentleman  and  ask  him  if  he  would 
like  an  introduction  to  the  bride. 

"Cephas!"  cried  the  Judge,  filled  with  wrath,  smiting, 
his  son's  written  agreement  with  his  angry  hand,  "look 
here !  your  promise !  Have  you  forgotten  ?" 

"  Read  it,  please,"  said  Cephas. 

"In  consideration,"  hegan  the  Judge,  running  his 
troubled  eye  over  the  paper,  ..."  I  do  hereby  pledge 
myself  never,  at  any  time,  or  in  any  place,  to  marry  any 
poor  girl." 

"  You  will  find,"  said  Cephas,  "  that  I  have  acted  accord 
ing  to  the  strict  terms  of  our  agreement.  And  I  have  the 
honor  to  inform  you,  sir,  that  I  have  married  a  person 
who,  with  other  attractions,  possesses  the  handsome  trifle 
of  three  thousand  dollars." 

The  Judge  fumed,  made  use  of  an  oath  or  two,  and 
talked  loudly  of  disinheritance  and  cutting  off  with  a 
shilling. 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  have  you  do  such  a  thing," 
rejoined  Cephas,  respectfully;  "but,  after  all,  it  isn't  as 
though  I  had  not  received  a  neat  little  fortune  by  the 
way  of  my  wife." 

A  retort  so  happy  that  the  Judge  ended  with  a  hearty 
acknowledgment  of  his  son's  superior  wit,  and  an  invita 
tion  to  come  home  and  lodge  his  lovely  encumbrance  be 
neath  the  parental  roof. 

Thereupon  Cephas  took  a  roll  of  notes  from  his  pocket. 
"  All  jesting  aside,"  said  he,  "  I  must  first  square  a  little 
matter  of  business  with  which  my  wife  has  commissioned 
me.  She  is  more  scrupulous  than  the  son  of  my  father, 
and  she  refused  to  receive  the  money  until  I  had  promised 
to  return  it  to  you  as  soon  as  we  should  be  married.  And 
here  it  is." 


ALDRICH]  BABY  BELL.  35 

"  Fie,  fie !"  cried  the  Judge.  "  Keep  the  money.  She's 
a  noble  girl,  after  all, — too  good  for  a  rogue  like  you !" 

"I  know  it!"  said  Cephas,  humbly,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes ;  for  recollections  of  a  somewhat  wild  and  wayward 
youth,  mingling  with  the  conscious  possession  of  so  much 
love  and  happiness,  melted  his  heart  with  unspeakable 
contrition  and  gratitude. 


BABY  BELL. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDKICH. 

[The  author  of  the  beautiful  selection  which  we  give  below  was 
born  at  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire,  in  1836.  His  life  has  been  spent 
in  literary  pursuits,  he  having  been  editorially  connected  with  several 
newspapers  and  having  contributed  largely  to  the  magazines.  His 
poetry  has  not  been  great  in  quantity,  but  is  exquisite  in  quality,  every 
verse  being  worked  into  form  with  the  care  which  a  gem-cutter  ex 
pends  upon  a  precious  stone.  To  Mr.  Aldrich  we  are  indebted  for 
some  of  the  choicest  bits  of  lyric  poetry  in  the  language.  He  has  also 
written  several  prose  works,  of  which  "  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy"  be 
came  at  once  a  favorite  with  the  reading  public.] 

HAVE  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours  ? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar : 
With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even, — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angels  go, 

Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven. 


36  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers, — those  feet, 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels, 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers : 
Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet  1 
And  thus  came  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours. 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May. 

The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves ; 

Like  sunlight,  in  and  out  the  leaves 
The  robins  went,  the  livelong  day ; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell ; 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine. 
How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell  1 
Oh,  earth  was  full  of  singing  birds 
And  opening  springtide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Baby  Bell 

Came  to  this  world  of  ours ! 

Oh,  Baby,  dainty  Baby  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day ! 
What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes, 
What  poetry  within  them  lay, — 
Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 

So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 

As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise. 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more : 
Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 

Was  love  so  lovely  born  ! 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen, — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn ; 


ALDBICH]  BABY  BELL.  37 

And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 
For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Baby  came  from  Paradise), — 
For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 
We  said,  Dear  Christ ! — our  hearts  bent  down 

Like  violets  after  rain. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 
And  red  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 
Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime : 
The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 
The  soft-cheeked  peaches  blushed  and  fell, 
The  folded  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 
The  grapes  hung  purpling  in  the  grange  ; 
And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 

In  little  Baby  Bell. 
Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 

And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 

In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face. 
Her  angel-nature  ripened  too  : 
We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came, 

But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now  : 

Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 
We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame  I 

God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 

That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech ; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 

Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us. 

We  never  held  her  being's  key ; 
We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things : 

She  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 
II.  4 


434930 


38  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [ALimica 

It  came  upon  us  by  degreed, 

"We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell, — 
The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 

His  messenger  for  Baby  Bell. 
We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 
And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 

Like  sunshine  into  rain. 
"We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 
"  Oh,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God ! 
Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
And  perfect  grow  through  grief." 
Ah !  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell ; 
Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 

Our  hearts  are  broken,  Baby  Bell  I 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands : 
And  what  did  dainty  Baby  Bell  ? 
She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair  I 
"We  parted  back  her  silken  hair, 
"We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow, — 
"White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow,— 
"Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers.  .  .  • 
And  thus  went  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours ! 


THOKEAU!  ASCENDING  KTAADN.  39 

ASCENDING  KTAADN. 

HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU. 

[A  devoted  lover  of  nature,  with  whom  he  lived  in  close  and  ardent 
intimacy,  Thoreau  avoided  man  with  a  seeming  eccentricity,  which 
arose  less  from  actual  dislike  to  human  companionship  than  from  a 
greater  attraction  to  the  study  of  nature  in  her  most  secret  haunte 
and  recesses.  For  two  years  he  lived  a  hermit  life  on  the  shores  of 
Lake  Walden,  near  Concord,  his  native  town.  The  result  of  his  com 
munion  with  nature  we  have  in  "  Walden,"  in  which  the  finer  aspects 
of  the  woods,  the  fields,  and  the  skies  are  delineated  with  wonderful 
truth  and  delicacy  of  appreciation.  In  the  words  of  Hawthorne,  "  Mr 
Thoreau  dedicated  his  genius  with  such  entire  love  to  the  fields,  hills, 
and  waters  of  his  native  town,  that  he  made  them  known  and  interest 
ing  to  all  reading  Americans  and  to  people  over  the  sea.  .  .  .  While 
he  used  in  his  writings  a  certain  petulance  of  remark  in  reference  to 
churches  and  churchmen,  he  was  a  person  of  rare,  tender,  and  absolute 
religion, — a  person  incapable  of  any  profanation."  It  is  said  that 
he  never  went  to  church,  never  voted,  and  never  paid  a  tax  to  the 
State, — a  form  of  eccentricity  that  is  certainly  not  to  be  commended. 
Thoreau  was  well  versed  in  classical  and  Oriental  literature,  but  lived 
a  sort  of  vagrant  life,  without  profession  or  declared  aim  in  exist 
ence.  In  the  following  selection,  taken  from  his  "  Maine  Woods," 
are  clearly  displayed  the  workings  of  an  original  mind,  which  occu 
pies  the  position  of  an  envoy  from  nature  to  man,  rather  than  that 
of  one  from  man  to  nature.  He  was  born  in  1817,  and  died  in 
1862.] 

AT  length  we  reached  an  elevation  sufficiently  bare 
to  afford  a  view  of  the  summit,  still  distant  and  blue, 
almost  as  if  retreating  from  us.  A  torrent,  which  proved 
to  be  the  same  we  had  crossed,  was  seen  tumbling  down 
in  front,  literally  from  out  of  the  clouds.  But  this  glimpse 
at  our  whereabouts  was  soon  lost,  and  we  were  buried  in 
the  woods  again.  The  wood  was  chiefly  yellow  birch, 
spruce,  fir,  mountain-ash,  or  round-wood,  as  the  Maine 


40  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [THOREAU 

people  call  it,  and  moose-wood.  It  was  the  worst  kind  of 
travelling ;  sometimes  like  the  densest  scrub-oak  patches 
with  us.  The  cornel,  or  bunch-berries,  were  very  abun 
dant,  as  well  as  Solomon's  seal  and  moose-berries.  Blue 
berries  were  distributed  along  our  whole  route;  and  in 
one  place  the  bushes  were  drooping  with  the  weight  of 
the  fruit,  still  as  fresh  as  ever.  It  was  the  7th  of  Septem 
ber.  Such  patches  afforded  a  grateful  repast,  and  served 
to  bait  the  tired  party  forward.  When  any  lagged  behind, 
the  cry  of  "  blueberries"  was  most  effectual  to  bring  them 
up.  Even  at  this  elevation  we  passed  through  a  moose- 
yard,  formed  by  a  large,  flat  rock,  four  or  five  rods  square, 
where  they  tread  down  the  snow  in  winter.  At  length, 
fearing  that  if  we  held  the  direct  course  to  the  summit 
we  should  not  find  any  water  near  our  camping-ground, 
wo  gradually  swerved  to  the  west,  till,  at  four  o'clock,  we 
struck  again  the  torrent  which  I  have  mentioned,  and 
here,  in  view  of  the  summit,  the  weary  party  decided  to 
camp  that  night. 

While  my  companions  were  seeking  a  suitable  spot  for 
this  purpose,  I  improved  the  little  daylight  that  was  left 
in  climbing  the  mountain  alone.  We  were  in  a  deep  and 
narrow  ravine,  sloping  up  to  the  clouds  at  an  angle  of 
nearly  forty-five  degrees,  and  hemmed  in  by  walls  of  rock, 
which  were  at  first  covered  with  low  trees,  then  with  im 
penetrable  thickets  of  scraggy  birches  and  spruce-trees, 
and  with  moss,  but  at  last  bare  of  all  vegetation  but  li 
chens,  and  almost  continually  draped  in  clouds.  Follow 
ing  up  the  course  of  the  torrent  which  occupied  this, — and 
I  mean  to  lay  some  emphasis  on  this  word  up, — pulling 
myself  up  by  the  side  of  perpendicular  falls  of  twenty  01 
thirty  feet,  by  the  roots  of  firs  and  birches,  and  then,  per 
haps,  walking  a  level  rod  or  two  in  the  thin  stream,  for 
it  took  up  the  whole  road,  ascending  by  huge  steps,  as  it 


THOREAU]  ASCENDING  KTAADN.  41 

were,  a  giant's  stairway,  down  which  a  river  flowed,  I  had 
soon  cleared  the  trees,  and  paused  on  the  successive  shelves, 
to  look  hack  over  the  country.  The  torrent  was  from  fif 
teen  to  thirty  feet  wide,  without  a  tributary,  and  seem 
ingly  not  diminishing  in  breadth  as  I  advanced ;  but  still 
it  came  rushing  and  roaring  down,  with  a  copious  tide, 
over  and  amidst  masses  of  bare  rock,  from  the  very  clouds, 
as  though  a  waterspout  had  just  burst  over  the  mountain. 
Leaving  this  at  last,  I  began  to  work  my  way,  scarcely 
less  arduous  than  Satan's  anciently  through  Chaos,  up  the 
nearest,  though  not  the  highest,  peak, — at  first  scrambling 
on  all-fours  over  the  tops  of  ancient  black  spruce-trees 
(Abies  nigrd),  old  as  the  flood,  from  two  to  ten  or  twelve 
feet  in  height,  their  tops  flat  and  spreading,  and  their  foli 
age  blue,  and  nipt  with  cold,  as  if  for  centuries  they  had 
ceased  growing  upward  against  the  bleak  sky,  the  solid 
cold.  I  walked  some  good  rods  erect  upon  the  tops  of 
these  trees,  which  were  overgrown  with  moss  and  moun 
tain-cranberries.  It  seemed  that  in  the  course  of  time 
they  had  filled  up  the  intervals  between  the  huge  rocks, 
and  the  cold  wind  had  uniformly  levelled  all  over.  Here 
the  principle  of  vegetation  was  hard  put  to  it.  There  was 
apparently  a  belt  of  this  kind  running  quite  round  the 
mountain,  though,  perhaps,  nowhere  so  remarkable  as 
here.  Once,  slumping  through,  I  looked  down  ten  feet, 
into  a  dark  and  cavernous  region,  and  saw  the  stem  of  a 
spruce,  on  whose  top  I  stood  as  on  a  mass  of  coarse  basket- 
work,  fully  nine  inches  in  diameter  at  the  ground.  These 
holes  were  bears'  dens,  and  the  bears  were  even  then  at 
home.  This  was  the  sort  of  garden  I  made  my  way  over, 
for  an  eighth  of  a  mile,  at  the  risk,  it  is  true,  of  treading 
on  some  of  the  plants,  not  seeing  any  path  through  it, — 
certainly  the  most  treacherous  and  porous  country  I  ever 
travelled. 

ii.  4* 


42  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [THOREAU 

11  Nigh  foundered,  on  he  fares, 
Treading  the  crude  consistence,  half  on  foot, 
Half  flying." 

But  nothing  could  exceed  the  toughness  of  the  twigs :  not 
one  snapped  under  my  weight,  for  they  had  slowly  grown. 
Having  slumped,  scrambled,  rolled,  bounced,  and  walked, 
by  turns,  over  this  scraggy  country,  I  arrived  upon  a  side- 
hill,  or  rather  side-mountain,  where  rocks,  gray,  silent 
rocks,  were  the  flocks  and  herds  that  pastured,  chewing  a 
rocky  cud  at  sunset.  They  looked  at  me  with  hard  gray 
eyes,  without  a  bleat  or  a  low.  This  brought  me  to  the 
skirt  of  a  cloud,  and  bounded  my  walk  that  night.  But 
I  had  already  seen  that  Maine  country  when  I  turned 
about,  waving,  flowing,  rippling,  down  below. 

When  I  returned  to  my  companions,  they  had  selected 
a  camping-ground  on  the  torrent's  edge,  and  were  resting 
on  the  ground :  one  was  on  the  sick-list,  rolled  in  a  blanket, 
on  a  damp  shelf  of  rock.  It  was  a  savage  and  dreary 
scenery  enough ;  so  wildly  rough,  that  they  looked  long 
to  find  a  level  and  open  space  for  the  tent.  We  could  not 
well  camp  higher,  for  want  of  fuel ;  and  the  trees  here 
seemed  so  evergreen  and  sappy  that  we  almost  doubted 
if  they  would  acknowledge  the  influence  of  fire ;  but  fire 
prevailed  at  last,  and  blazed  here  too,  like  a  good  citizen 
of  the  world.  Even  at  this  height  we  met  with  frequent 
traces  of  moose,  as  well  as  of  bears.  As  here  was  no 
cedar,  we  made  our  bed  of  coarser-feathered  spruce ;  but 
at  any  rate  the  feathers  were  plucked  from  the  live  tree. 
It  was,  perhaps,  even  a  more  grand  and  desolate  place  for 
a  night's  lodging  than  the  summit  would  have  been,  being 
in  the  neighborhood  of  those  wild  trees,  and  of  the  tor 
rent.  Some  more  aerial  and  finer-spirited  winds  rushed 
and  roared  through  the  ravine  all  night,  from  time  to  time 
arousing  our  fire  and  dispersing  the  embers  about.  It 


THOREAU]  ASCENDING  KTAADN.  43 

was  as  if  we  lay  in  the  very  nest  of  a  young  whirlwind. 
At  midnight,  one  of  my  bedfellows,  being  startled  in  his 
dreams  by  the  sudden  blazing  up  to  its  top  of  a  fir-tree 
whose  green  boughs  were  dried  by  the  heat,  sprang  up, 
with  a  cry,  from  his  bed,  thinking  the  world  on  fire,  and 
drew  the  whole  camp  after  him. 

In  the  morning,  after  whetting  our  appetite  on  some 
raw  pork,  a  wafer  of  hard  bread,  and  a  dipper  of  con 
densed  cloud  or  waterspout,  we  all  together  began  to  make 
our  way  up  the  falls  which  I  have  described, — this  time 
choosing  the  right-hand  or  highest  peak,  which  was  not 
the  one  I  had  approached  before.  But  soon  my  compan 
ions  were  lost  to  my  sight  behind  the  mountain-ridge  in 
my  rear,  which  still  seemed  ever  retreating  before  me,  and 
I  climbed  alone  over  huge  rocks,  loosely  poised,  a  mile  or 
more,  still  edging  toward  the  clouds ;  for,  though  the  day 
was  cl'ear  elsewhere,  the  summit  was  concealed  by  mist. 
The  mountain  seemed  a  vast  aggregation  of  loose  rocks, 
as  if  some  time  it  had  rained  rocks,  and  they  lay  as  they 
fell  on  the  mountain-sides,  nowhere  fairly  at  rest,  but 
leaning  on  each  other,  all  rocking-stones,  with  cavities 
between,  but  scarcely  any  soil  or  smoother  shelf.  They 
were  the  raw  materials  of  a  planet,  dropped  from  an  un 
seen  quarry,  which  the  vast  chemistry  of  nature  would 
anon  work  up,  or  work  down,  into  the  smiling  and  ver 
dant  plains  and  valleys  of  earth.  This  was  an  undone 
extremity  of  the  globe;  as  in  lignite  we  see  coal  in  the 
process  of  formation. 

At  length  I  entered  within  the  skirts  of  the  cloud  which 
seemed  forever  drifting  over  the  summit,  and  yet  would 
never  be  gone,  but  was  generated  out  of  that  pure  air  as 
fast  as  it  flowed  away;  and  when,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
farther,  I  reached  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  which  those 
who  have  seen  in  clearer  weather  say  is  about  five  miles 


44  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [THOREAD 

long,  and  contains  a  thousand  acres  of  table-land,  I  was 
deep  within  the  hostile  ranks  of  clouds,  and  all  objects 
were  obscured  by  them.  Now  the  wind  would  blow  me 
out  a  yard  of  clear  sunlight,  wherein  I  stood ;  then  a  gray, 
dawning  light  was  all  it  could  accomplish,  the  cloud-line 
ever  rising  and  falling  with  the  wind's  intensity.  Some 
times  it  seemed  as  if  the  summit  would  be  cleared  in  a 
few  moments,  and  smile  in  sunshine ;  but  what  was  gained 
on  one  side  was  lost  on  another.  It  was  like  sitting  in  a 
chimney  and  waiting  for  the  smoke  to  blow  away.  It 
was,  in  fact,  a  cloud-factory :  these  were  the  cloud-works, 
and  the  wind  turned  them  off  done  from  the  cool,  bare 
rocks.  Occasionally,  when  the  windy  columns  broke  in 
to  me,  I  caught  sight  of  a  dark,  damp  crag  to  the  right  or 
left,  the  mist  driving  ceaselessly  between  it  and  me.  It 
reminded  me  of  the  creations  of  the  old  epic  and  dramatic 
poets,  of  Atlas,  Yulcan,  the  Cyclops,  and  Prometheus. 
Such  was  Caucasus  and  the  rock  where  Prometheus  was 
bound.  jEschylus  had  no  doubt  visited  such  scenery  as 
this.  It  was  vast,  Titanic,  and  such  as  man  never  inhabits. 
Some  part  of  the  beholder,  even  some  vital  part,  seems  to 
escape  through  the  loose  grating  of  his  ribs  as  he  ascends. 
He  is  more  lone  than  you  can  imagine.  There  is  less  of 
substantial  thought  and  fair  understanding  in  him  than 
in  the  plains  where  men  inhabit.  His  reason  is  dispei-sed 
and  shadowy,  more  thin  and  subtle,  like  the  air.  Vast, 
Titanic,  inhuman  Nature  has  got  him  at  disadvantage, 
caught  him  alone,  and  pilfers  him  of  some  of  his  divine 
faculty.  She  does  not  smile  on  him  as  in  the  plains.  She 
seems  to  say  sternty,  Why  came  ye  here  before  your  time  ? 
This  ground  is  not  prepared  for  you.  Is  it  not  enough 
that  I  smile  in  the  valleys?  I  have  never  made  this  soil 
for  thy  feet,  this  air  for  thy  breathing,  these  rocks  for  thy 
neighbors.  I  cannot  pity  nor  fondle  thee  here,  but  forever 


THOREATT]  ASCENDING  KTAADN.  45 

relentlessly  drive  thee  hence  to  where  I  am  kind.  "Why 
seek  me  where  I  have  not  called  thee,  and  then  complain 
because  you  find  me  but  a  stepmother  ?  Shouldst  thou 
freeze  or  starve,  or  shudder  thy  life  away,  here  is  no  shrine, 
nor  altar,  nor  any  access  to  my  ear. 

"  Chaos  and  ancient  Night,  I  come  no  spy 
With  purpose  to  explore  or  to  disturb 
The  secrets  of  your  realm,  but  .  .  . 

...  as  my  way 
Lies  through  your  spacious  empire  up  to  light." 

The  tops  of  mountains  are  among  the  unfinished  parts 
of  the  globe,  whither  it  is  a  slight  insult  to  the  gods  to 
climb  and  pry  into  their  secrets  and  try  their  effect  on 
our  humanity.  Only  daring  and  insolent  men,  perchance, 
go  there.  Simple  races,  as  savages,  do  not  climb  moun 
tains  ;  their  tops  are  sacred  and  mysterious  tracts  never 
visited  by  them.  Pomola  is  always  angry  with  those  who 
climb  to  the  summit  of  Ktaadn.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  I  most  fully  realized  that  this  was  primeval, 
untamed,  and  forever  untamable  Nature,  or  whatever  else 
men  call  it,  while  coming  down  this  part  of  the  mountain. 
We  were  passing  over  "  Burnt  Lands,"  burnt  by  lightning, 
perchance,  though  they  showed  no  recent  marks  of  fire, 
hardly  so  much  as  a  charred  stump,  but  looked  rather  like 
a  natural  pasture  for  the  moose  and  deer,  exceedingly  wild 
and  desolate,  with  occasional  strips  of  timber  crossing 
them,  and  low  poplars  springing  up,  and  patches  of  blue 
berries  here  and  there.  I  found  myself  traversing  them 
familiarly,  like  some  pasture  run  to  waste,  or  partially 
reclaimed  by  man  ;  but  when  I  reflected  what  man,  what 
brother  or  sister  or  kinsman  of  our  race,  made  it  and 
claimed  it,  I  expected  the  proprietor  to  rise  up  and  dis 
pute  my  passage.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  of  a  region 


46  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [THOREAU 

uninhabited  by  man.  "We  habitually  presume  his  pres 
ence  and  influence  everywhere.  And  yet  we  have  not 
seen  pure  Nature,  unless  we  have  seen  her  thus  vast  and 
drear  and  inhuman,  though  in  the  midst  of  cities.  Nature 
has  here  something  savage  and  awful,  though  beautiful. 
I  looked  with  awe  at  the  ground  I  trod  on,  to  see  what 
'  the  Powers  had  made  there,  the  form  and  fashion  and 
material  of  their  work.  This  was  that  Earth  of  which 
we  have  heard,  made  out  of  Chaos  and  Old  Night.  Here 
was  no  man's  garden,  but  the  unhandselled  globe.  It  was 
not  lawn,  nor  pasture,  nor  mead,  nor  woodland,  nor  lea, 
nor  arable,  nor  waste-land.  It  was  the  fresh  and  natural 
surface  of  the  planet  Earth,  as  it  was  made  for  ever  and 
ever, — to  be  the  dwelling  of  man,  we  say, — so  Nature 
made  it,  and  man  may  use  it  if  he  can.  Man  was  not  to 
be  associated  with  it.  It  was  Matter,  vast,  terrific, — not 
his  Mother  Earth  that  we  have  heard  of,  not  for  him  to 
tread  on,  or  be  buried  in, — no,  it  were  being  too  familiar 
even  to  let  his  bones  lie  there, — the  home,  this,  of  Neces 
sity  and  Fate.  There  was  there  felt  the  presence  of  a 
force  not  bound  to  be  kind  to  man.  It  was  a  place  for 
heathenism  and  superstitious  rites, — to  be  inhabited  by 
men  nearer  of  kin  to  the  rocks  and  to  wild  animals  than 
we.  We  walked  over  it  with  a  certain  awe,  stopping, 
from  time  to  time,  to  pick  the  blueberries  which  grew 
there  and  had  a  smart  and  spicy  taste.  Perchance  where 
our  wild  pines  stand,  and  leaves  lie  on  their  forest  floor,  in 
Concord,  there  were  once  reapers,  and  husbandmen  planted 
grain ;  but  here  not  even  the  surface  had  been  scarred  by 
man,  but  it  was  a  specimen  of  what  God  saw  fit  to  make 
this  world.  What  is  it  to  be  admitted  to  a  museum,  to 
see  a  myriad  of  particular  things,  compared  with  being 
shown  some  star's  surface,  some  hard  matter  in  its  home  ! 
I  stand  in  awe  of  my  body,  this  matter  to  which  I  am 


OSSOLI]  IMPRESSIONS  OF  NIAGARA.  47 

bound  has  become  so  strange  to  me.  I  fear  not  spirits, 
ghosts,  of  which  I  am  one, — that  my  body  might, — but  I 
fear  bodies,  I  tremble  to  »aeet  them.  What  is  this  Titan 
that  has  possession  of  me  ?  Talk  of  mysteries ! — Think 
of  our  life  in  nature, — daily  to  be  shown  matter,  to  come 
in  contact  with  it, — rocks,  trees,  wind  on  our  cheeks  I  the 
solid  earth !  the  actual  world !  the  common  sense !  Contact  I 
Contact!  Who  are  we  ?  where  are  we  ? 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  NIAGARA. 

MARGARET  FULLER  OSSOLI. 

[Margaret  Fuller  was  born  at  Cambridgeport,  Massachusetts,  in  1810. 
She  displayed  remarkable  precocity  as  a  student,  and  while  yet  quite 
young  was  looked  upon  as  a  prodigy  of  learning,  in  those  days  in 
which  few  learned  women  had  as  yet  appeared  in  America.  Brilliant 
conversational  powers,  and  excellent  ability  as  a  lecturer,  brought  her 
prominently  before  the  literary  world,  while  her  writings  were  received 
with  high  favor  by  some  of  the  leading  critics,  though  they  have  since 
greatly  declined  in  public  estimation,  and  seem  to  our  eyes  of  secondary 
value  as  literary  efforts.  "We  append  one  of  the  most  attractive  of  her 
descriptive  essays.  In  1846  she  went  to  Europe,  and  in  December, 
1847,  was  married,  at  Kome,  to  the  Marquis  Ossoli,  an  Italian  noble 
man.  On  her  return  to  her  native  country  she  perished,  with  her  hus 
band  and  child,  in  the  wreck  of  the  brig  Elizabeth,  July  19,  1850.] 

NIAGARA,  June  10,  1843. 

SINCE  you  are  to  share  with  me  such  foot-notes  as  may 
be  made  on  the  pages  of  my  life  during  this  summer's 
wanderings,  I  should  not  be  quite  silent  as  to  this  magnifi 
cent  prologue  to  the,  as  yet,  unknown  drama.  Yet  I,  like 
others,  have  little  to  say,  where  the  spectacle  is,  for  once, 
great  enough  to  fill  the  whole  life,  and  supersede  thought, 


48  BEST  AMERICA  N  A  UTHORS.  [OssoLi 

giving  us  only  its  own  presence.  "  It  is  good  to  be  here," 
is  the  best,  as  the  simplest,  expression  that  occurs  to  the 
mind. 

We  have  been  here  eight  days,  and  I  am  quite  willing 
to  go  away.  So  great  a  sight  soon  satisfies,  making  us 
content  with  itself,  and  with  what  is  less  than  itself.  Our 
desires,  once  realized,  haunt  us  again  less  readily.  Having 
"  lived  one  day,"  we  would  depart,  and  become  worthy  to 
live  another. 

"We  have  not  been  fortunate  in  weather,  for  there  cannot 
be  too  much  or  too  warm  sunlight  for  this  scene,  and  the 
skies  have  been  lowering,  with  cold,  unkind  winds.  My 
nerves,  too  much  braced  up  by  such  an  atmosphere,  do  not 
well  bear  the  continual  stress  of  sight  and  sound.  For 
here  there  is  no  escape  from  the  weight  of  a  perpetual 
creation ;  all  other  forms  and  motions  come  and  go,  the 
tide  rises  and  recedes,  the  wind,  at  its  mightiest,  moves 
in  gales  and  gusts,  but  here  is  really  an  incessant,  an  in 
defatigable  motion.  Awake  or  asleep,  there  is  no  escape, 
still  this  rushing  round  you  and  through  you.  It  is  in  this 
way  I  have  most  felt  the  grandeur, — somewhat  eternal,  if 
not  infinite. 

At  times  a  secondary  music  rises ;  the  cataract  seems  to 
seize  its  own  rhythm  and  sing  it  over  again,  so  that  the 
ear  and  soul  are  roused  by  a  double  vibration.  This  is 
some  effect  of  the  wind,  causing  echoes  to  the  thundering 
anthem.  It  is  very  sublime,  giving  the  effect  of  a  spirit 
ual  repetition  through  all  the  spheres. 

When  I  first  came,  I  felt  nothing  but  a  quiet  satisfaction. 
I  found  that  drawings,  the  panorama,  etc.,  had  given  me 
a  clear  notion  of  the  position  and  proportions  of  all  ob 
jects  here;  I  knew  where  to  look  for  everything,  and 
everything  looked  as  I  thought  it  would. 

Long  ago,  I  was  looking  from  a  hill-side  with  a  friend 


OSSOLI]  IMPRESSIONS  OF  NIAGARA.  49 

at  one  of  the  finest  sunsets  that  ever  enriched  this  world. 
A  little  cow-boy,  trudging  along,  wondered  what  we  could 
be  gazing  at.  After  spying  about  some  time,  he  found 
it  could  only  be  the  sunset,  and  looking,  too,  a  moment, 
he  said,  approvingly,  "  That  sun  looks  well  enough  ;" — a 
speech  worthy  of  Shakespeare's  Cloten,  or  the  infant  Mer 
cury,  up  to  everything  from  the  cradle,  as  you  please  to 
take  it. 

Even  such  a  familiarity,  worthy  of  Jonathan,  our  na 
tional  hero,  in  a  prince's  palace,  or  "stumping,"  as  he 
boasts  to  have  done,  "up  the  Vatican  stairs,  into  the 
Pope's  presence,  in  my  old  boots,"  I  felt  here ;  it  looks 
really  well  enough,  I  felt,  and  was  inclined,  as  you  sug 
gested,  to  give  my  approbation  as  to  the  one  object  in  the 
world  that  would  not  disappoint. 

But  all  great  expression,  which,  on  a  superficial  survey, 
seems  so  easy  as  well  as  so  simple,  furnishes,  after  a  while, 
to  the  faithful  observer,  its  own  standard  by  which  to 
appreciate  it.  Daily  these  proportions  widened  and  tow 
ered  more  and  more  upon  my  sight,  and  I  got,  at  last,  a 
proper  foreground  for  these  sublime  distances.  Before 
coming  away,  I  think  I  really  saw  the  full  wonder  of  the 
scene.  After  a  while  it  so  drew  me  into  itself  as  to  inspire 
an  undefined  dread,  such  as  I  never  knew  before,  such  as 
may  be  felt  when  death  is  about  to  usher  us  into  a  new 
existence.  The  perpetual  trampling  of  the  waters  seized 
my  senses.  I  felt  that  no  other  sound,  however  near, 
could  be  heard,  and  would  start  and  look  behind  me  for 
a  foe.  I  realized  the  identity  of  that  mood  of  nature  in 
which  these  waters  were  poured  down  with  such  absorb 
ing  force,  with  that  in  which  the  Indian  was  shaped  on 
the  same  soil.  For  continually  upon  my  mind  came,  un 
sought  and  unwelcome,  images,  such  as  never  haunted  it 
before,  of  naked  savages  stealing  behind  me  with  uplifted 
II. — c  d  5 


50  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [OssoLi 

tomahawks;  again  and  again  this  illusion  recurred,  and 
even  after  I  had  thought  it  over,  and  tried  to  shake  it  off. 
I  could  not  help  starting  and  looking  behind  me. 

As  picture,  the  falls  can  only  be  seen  from  the  British 
side.  There  they  are  seen  in  their  veils,  and  at  sufficient 
distance  to  appreciate  the  magical  effects  of  these,  and  the 
light  and  shade.  From  the  boat,  as  you  cross,  the  effects 
and  contrasts  are  more  melodramatic.  On  the  road  back 
from  the  whirlpool  we  saw  them  as  a  reduced  picture  with 
delight.  But  what  I  liked  best  was  to  sit  on  Table  Eock, 
close  to  the  great  fall.  There  all  power  of  observing  de 
tails,  all  separate  consciousness,  was  quite  lost. 

Once,  just  as  I  had  seated  myself  there,  a  man  came  to 
take  his  first  look.  He  walked  close  up  to  the  fall,  and, 
after  looking  at  it  a  moment,  with  an  air  as  if  thinking 
how  he  could  best  appropriate  it  to  his  own  use,  he  spat 
into  it. 

This  trait  seemed  wholly  worthy  of  an  age  whose  love 
of  utility  is  such  that  the  Prince  Puckler  Muskau  suggests 
the  probability  of  men  coming  to  put  the  bodies  of  their 
dead  parents  in  the  fields  to  fertilize  them,  and  of  a 
country  such  as  Dickens  has  described;  but  these  will 
not,  I  hope,  be  seen  on  the  historic  page  to  be  truly  the 
age  or  truly  the  America.  A  little  leaven  is  leavening 
the  whole  mass  for  other  bread. 

The  whirlpool  I  like  very  much.  It  is  seen  to  advantage 
after  the  great  falls;  it  is  so  sternly  solemn.  The  river 
cannot  look  more  imperturbable,  almost  sullen,  in  its  mar 
ble  green,  than  it  does  just  below  the  great  fall ;  but  the 
slight  circles  that  mark  the  hidden  vortex  seem  to  whisper 
mysteries  the  thundering  voice  above  could  not  proclaim. 
— a  meaning  as  untold  as  ever. 

It  is  fearful,  too,  to  know,  as  you  look,  that  whatever 
has  been  swallowed  by  the  cataract  is  like  to  rise  suddenly 


OSSOLI]  IMPRESSIONS  OF  NIAGARA.  51 

to  light  here,  whether  uprooted  tree,  or  body  of  man  or 
bird. 

The  rapids  enchanted  me  far  beyond  what  I  expected ; 
they  are  so  swift  that  they  cease  to  seem  so;  you  can 
think  only  of  their  beauty.  The  fountain  beyond  the 
Moss  Islands  I  discovered  for  myself,  and  thought  it  for 
some  time  an  accidental  beauty  which  it  would  not  do  to 
leave,  lest  I  might  never  see  it  again.  After  I  found  it 
permanent,  I  returned  many  times  to  watch  the  play  of 
its  crest.  In  the  little  water-fall  beyond,  Nature  seems,  as 
she  often  does,  to  have  made  a  study  for  some  larger  de 
sign.  She  delights  in  this, — a  sketch  within  a  sketch,  a 
dream  within  a  dream.  IVherever  we  see  it, — the  lines  of 
the  great  buttress  in  the  fragment  of  stone,  the  hues  of 
the  water-fall  copied  in  the  flowers  that  star  its  bordering 
mosses,— we  are  delighted ;  for  all  the  lineaments  becomo 
fluent,  and  we  mould  the  scene  in  congenial  thought  with 
its  genius. 

People  complain  of  the  buildings  at  Niagara,  and  fear 
to  see  it  further  deformed.  I  cannot  sympathize  with 
such  an  apprehension :  the  spectacle  is  capable  of  swallow 
ing  up  all  such  objects ;  they  are  not  seen  in  the  great 
whole,  more  than  an  earthworm  in  a  wide  field. 

The  beautiful  wood  on  Goat  Island  is  full  of  flowers ; 
many  of  the  fairest  love  to  do  homage  here.  The  wake- 
robin  and  May-apple  are  in  bloom  now ;  the  former,  white, 
pink,  green,  purple,  copying  the  rainbow  of  the  fall,  and 
fit  to  make  a  garland  for  its  presiding  deity  when  he 
walks  the  land,  for  they  are  of  imperial  size,  and  shaped 
like  stones  for  a  diadem.  Of  the  May-apple,  I  did  not 
raise  one  green  tent  without  finding  a  flower  beneath. 

And  now  farewell,  Niagara.  I  have  seen  thee,  and  I 
think  all  who  come  here  must  in  some  sort  see  thee ;  thou 
art  not  to  be  got  rid  of  as  easily  as  the  stars.  I  will  be 


•J2  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [OssoLi 

here  again  beneath  some  flooding  July  moon  and  sun. 
Owing  to  the  absence  of  light,  I  have  seen  the  rainbow 
)nly  two  or  three  times  by  day ;  the  lunar  bow  not  at  all. 
ffowever,  the  imperial  presence  needs  not  its  crown, 
/hough  illustrated  by  it. 

General  Porter  and  Jack  Downing  were  not  unsuitable 
figures  here.  The  former  heroically  planted  the  bridges 
by  which  we  cross  to  Goat  Island,  and  the  wake-robin- 
crowned  genius  has  punished  his  temerity  with  deafness, 
which  must,  I  think,  have  come  upon  him  when  he  sunk 
the  first  stone  in  the  rapids.  Jack  seemed  an  acute  and 
entertaining  representative  of  Jonathan,  come  to  look  at 
his  great  water-privilege.  He  told  us  all  about  the  Ameri 
canisms  of  the  spectacle ;  that  is  to  say,  the  battles  that 
have  been  fought  here.  It  seems  strange  that  men  could 
fight  in  such  a  place ;  but  no  temple  can  still  the  personal 
griefs  and  strifes  in  the  breasts  of  its  visitors. 

No  less  strange  is  the  fact  that,  in  this  neighborhood, 
an  eagle  should  be  chained  for  a  plaything.  When  a  child, 
I  used  often  to  stand  at  a  window  from  which  I  could  see 
an  eagle  chained  in  the  balcony  of  a  museum.  The  peo 
ple  used  to  poke  at  it  with  sticks,  and  my  childish  heart 
would  swell  with  indignation  as  I  saw  their  insults,  and 
the  mien  with  which  they  were  borne  by  the  monarch- 
bird.  Its  eye  was  dull,  and  its  plumage  soiled  and  shabby, 
yet  in  its  form  and  attitude  all  the  king  was  visible,  though 
sorrowful  and  dethroned.  I  never  saw  another  of  the 
family  till,  when  passing  through  the  Notch  of  the  White 
Mountains,  at  that  moment  glowing  before  us  in  all  the 
panoply  of  sunset,  the  driver  shouted,  "  Look  there  1"  and, 
following  with  our  eyes  his  upward-pointing  finger,  we 
saw,  soaring  slow  in  majestic  poise  above  the  highest  sum 
mit,  the  bird  of  Jove.  It  was  a  glorious  sight,  yet  I  know 
not  that  I  felt  more  on  seeing  the  bird  in  all  its  natural 


OSSOLI]  IMPRESSIONS  OF  NIAGAR  ..  53 

freedom  and  royalty  than  when,  imprisoned  and  insulted, 
he  had  filled  my  early  thoughts  with  the  Byronic  "  silent 
rages"  of  misanthropy. 

Now,  again,  I  saw  him  a  captive,  and  addressed  hy  the 
vulgar  with  the  language  they  seem  to  find  most  ap 
propriate  to  such  occasions, — that  of  thrusts  and  blows. 
Silently,  his  head  averted,  he  ignored  their  existence,  as 
Plotinus  or  Sophocles  might  that  of  a  modern  reviewer. 
Probably  he  listened  to  the  voice  of  the  cataract,  and  felt 
that  congenial  powers  flowed  free,  and  was  consoled, 
though  his  own  wing  was  broken. 

The  story  of  the  Keel  use  of  Niagara  interested  me  a 
little.  It  is  wonderful  that  men  do  not  oftener  attach 
their  lives  to  localities  of  great  beauty, — that,  when  once 
deeply  penetrated,  they  will  let  themselves  so  easily  be 
borne  away  by  the  general  stream  of  things,  to  live  any 
where  and  anyhow.  But  there  is  something  ludicrous  in 
being  the  hermit  of  a  show-place,  unlike  St.  Francis  in  his 
mountain-bed,  where  none  but  the  stars  and  rising  sun 
ever  saw  him. 

There  is  also  a  "  guide  to  the  falls,"  who  wears  his  title 
labelled  on  his  hat ;  otherwise,  indeed,  one  might  as  soon 
think  of  asking  for  a  gentleman  usher  to  point  out  the 
moon.  Yet  why  should  we  wonder  at  such,  when  we 
have  Commentaries  on  Shakespeare,  and  Harmonies  of 
the  Gospels? 

And  now  you  have  the  little  all  I  have  to  write.  Can 
it  interest  you?  To  one  who  has  enjoyed  the  full  life  of 
any  scene,  of  any  hour,  what  thoughts  can  be  recorded 
about  it  seem  like  the  commas  and  semicolons  in  the  para 
graph, — mere  stops.  Yet  I  suppose  it  is  not  so  to  the  ab 
sent.  At  least,  I  have  read  things  about  Niagara,  music, 
and  the  like,  that  interested  me.  Once  I  was  moved  by 
Mr.  Greenwood's  remark,  that  he  could  not  realize  this 
ii.  5* 


54  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [Ossoti 

marvel  till,  opening  his  eyes  the  next  morning  after  he 
had  seen  it,  his  doubt  as  to  the  possibility  of  its  being  still 
there  taught  him  what  he  had  experienced.  I  remember 
this  now  with  pleasure,  though,  or  because,  it  is  exactly 
the  opposite  to  what  I  myself  felt.  For  all  greatness 
affects  different  minds,  each  in  "its  own  particular  kind," 
and  the  variations  of  testimony  mark  the  truth  of  feel 
ing.* 

I  will  here  add  a  brief  narrative  of  the  experience  of 
another,  as  being  much  better  than  anything  I  could 
write,  because  more  simple  and  individual : 

"Now  that  I  have  left  this  '  Earth- wonder,'  and  the 
emotions  it  excited  are  past,  it  seems  not  so  much  like 
profanation  to  analyze  my  feelings,  to  recall  minutely  and 
accurately  the  effect  of  this  manifestation  of  the  Eternal. 
But  one  should  go  to  such  a  scene  prepared  to  yield  en 
tirely  to  its  influences,  to  forget  one's  little  self  and  one's 
little  mind.  To  see  a  miserable  worm  creep  to  the  brink 
of  this  falling  world  of  waters,  and  watch  the  trembling 
of  its  own  petty  bosom,  and  fancy  that  this  is  made  alone 
to  act  upon  him,  excites — derision  ?  No, — pity." 

As  I  rode  up  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  falls,  a  solemn 
awe  imperceptibly  stole  over  me,  and  the  deep  sound  of 
the  ever-hurrying  rapids  prepared  my  mind  for  the  lofty 
emotions  to  be  experienced.  When  I  reached  the  hotel, 
I  felt  a  strange  indifference  about  seeing  the  aspiration 
of  my  life's  hopes.  I  lounged  about  the  rooms,  read  the 

*  "  Somewhat  avails,  in  one  regard,  the  mere  sight  of  beauty  with 
out  the  union  of  feeling  therewith.  Carried  away  in  memory,  it  hangs 
there  in  the  lonely  hall  as  a  picture,  and  may  some  time  do  its  mes 
sage.  I  trust  it  may  be  so  in  my  case,  for  I  saw  every  object  far  more 
clearly  than  if  I  had  been  moved  and  filled  with  the  presence,  and 
my  recollections  are  equally  distinct  and  vivid."  Extracted  from 
Manuscript  Notes  of  this  Journey  left  by  Margaret  Fuller. — ED. 


OSSOLI]  IMPRESSIONS  OF  NIAGARA.  55 

stage-bills  upon  the  walls,  looked  over  the  register,  and. 
finding  the  name  of  an  acquaintance,  sent  to  see  if  he  was 
still  there.  "What  this  hesitation  arose  from,  I  know  not : 
perhaps  it  was  a  feeling  of  my  unworthiness  to  enter  this 
temple  which  nature  has  erected  to  its  God. 

At  last,  slowly  and  thoughtfully  I  walked  down  to  the 
bridge  leading  to  Goat  Island,  and  when  I  stood  upon  this 
frail  support,  and  saw  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  tumbling, 
rushing  rapids,  and  heard  their  everlasting  roar,  my  emo 
tions  overpowered  me,  a  choking  sensation  rose  to  my 
throat,  a  thrill  rushed  through  my  veins,  "  my  blood  ran 
rippling  to  my  fingers'  ends."  This  was  the  climax  of 
the  effect  which  the  falls  produced  upon  me.  Neither 
the  American  nor  the  British  fall  moved  me  as  did  these 
rapids.  For  the  magnificence,  the  sublimity,  of  the  lat 
ter,  I  was  prepared  by  descriptions  and  by  paintings. 
When  I  arrived  in  sight  of  them  I  merely  felt,  "  Ah,  yes ! 
here  is  the  fall,  just  as  I  have  seen  it  in  a  picture."  When 
I  arrived  at  the  Terrapin  Bridge,  I  expected  to  be  over 
whelmed,  to  retire  trembling  from  this  giddy  eminence, 
and  gaze  with  unlimited  wonder  and  awe  upon  the  im 
mense  mass  rolling  on  and  on ;  but,  somehow  or  other,  I 
thought  only  of  comparing  the  effect  on  my  mind  with 
what  I  had  read  and  heard.  I  looked  for  a  short  time, 
and  then,  with  almost  a  feeling  of  disappointment,  turned 
to  go  to  the  other  points  of  view,  to  see  if  i  was  not  mis 
taken  in  not  feeling  any  surpassing  emotion  at  this  sight. 
But  from  the  foot  of  Biddle's  Stairs,  and  the  middle  of  the 
river,  and  from  below  the  Table  Rock,  it  was  still  "  barren, 
barren  all." 

Provoked  with  my  stupidity  in  feeling  most  moved  in 
the  wrong  place,  I  turned  away  to  the  hotel,  determined 
to  set  off  for  Buffalo  that  afternoon.  But  the  stage  did 
not  go,  and  after  nightfall,  as  there  was  a  splendid  moon, 


56  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [OssoLl 

I  went  down  to  the  bridge,  and  leaned  over  the  parapet, 
where  the  boiling  rapids  came  down  in  their  might.  It 
was  grand,  and  it  was  also  gorgeous ;  the  yellow  rays  of 
the  moon  made  the  broken  waves  appear  like  auburn 
tresses  twining  around  the  black  rocks.  But  they  did  not 
inspire  me  as  before.  I  felt  a  foreboding  of  a  mightier 
emotion  to  rise  up  and  swallow  all  others,  and  I  passed  OQ 
to  the  Terrapin  Bridge.  Everything  was  changed;  the 
misty  apparition  had  taken  off  its  many-colored  crown 
which  it  had  worn  by  day,  and  a  bow  of  silvery  white 
spanned  its  summit.  The  moonlight  gave  a  poetical  in- 
definiteness  to  the  distant  parts  of  the  waters,  and,  while 
the  rapids  were  glancing  in  her  beams,  the  river  below 
the  falls  was  black  as  night,  save  where  the  reflection  of 
the  sky  gave  it  the  appearance  of  a  shield  of  blued  steel. 
No  gaping  tourists  loitered,  eying  with  their  glasses  or 
sketching  on  cards  the  hoary  locks  of  the  ancient  river- 
god.  All  tended  to  harmonize  with  the  natural  grandeur 
of  the  scene.  I  gazed  long.  I  saw  how  here  mutability 
and  unchangeableness  were  united.  I  surveyed  the  con 
spiring  waters  rushing  against  the  rocky  ledge  to  over 
throw  it  at  one  mad  plunge,  till,  like  toppling  ambition, 
o'erleaping  themselves,  they  fall  on  t'other  side,  expanding 
into  foam  ere  they  reach  the  deep  channel  where  they 
creep  submit  lively  away. 

Then  arose  in  my  breast  a  genuine  admiration,  and  a 
humble  adoration  of  the  Being  who  was  the  architect  of 
this  and  of  all.  Happy  were  the  first  discoverers  of  Ni 
agara,  those  who  could  come  unawares  upon  this  view  and 
upon  that,  whose  feelings  were  entirely  their  own.  With 
what  gusto  does  Father  Hennepin  describe  "this  great 
downfall  of  water,"  "  this  vast  and  prodigious  cadence  of 
water,  which  falls  down  after  a  surprising  and  astonishing 
manner,  insomuch  that  the  universe  does  not  afford  its 


HIQGINSON]  FOE.  57 

parallel.  'Tis  true  Italy  and  Swedeland  boast  of  some 
such  things,  but  we  may  well  say  that  they  be  sorry  pat 
terns  when  compared  with  this  of  which  we  do  now  speak." 


POE. 

THOMAS  W.  HIGGINSON. 

[We  make  the  following  selection  from  one  of  our  most  genial  es 
sayists,  whose  nature-studies  are  not  surpassed  in  poetical  grace  and 
delicacy  of  discernment  by  any  in  the  language,  while  his  critical 
essays  on  authors  show  a  mind  in  intimate  rapport  with  his  subject. 
Poe  has  never  been  treated  with  more  felicity  than  in  the  essay  given 
below.  Mr.  Higginson  is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  essays, 
vigorous  in  thought  and  graceful  in  style;  of  "  Malbone,  an  Oldport 
Romance,"  in  which  life  in  Newport  is  delineated  with  a  happy  power 
which  John  G-.  Saxe  has  compared  to  that  of  Hawthorne ;  and  of 
"  Army  Life  in  a  Black  Kegiment,"  describing  actual  experiences  of 
the  author,  who  commanded  a  regiment  of  colored  soldiers  in  the  civil 
war.  Mr.  Higginson  was  born  in  1823,  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts, 
•where  he  still  resides.] 

IT  happens  to  us  rarely  in  our  lives  to  come  consciously 
into  the  presence  of  that  extraordinary  miracle  we  call 
genius.  Among  the  many  literary  persons  whom  I  have 
happened  to  meet,  at  home  or  abroad,  there  are  not  half  a 
dozen  who  have  left  an  irresistible  sense  of  this  rare  qual 
ity  ;  and,  among  these  few,  Poe  stands  next  to  Hawthorne 
in  the  vividness  of  personal  impression  he  produced.  I 
saw  him  but  once ;  and  it  was  on  that  celebrated  occasion, 
in  1845,  when  he  startled  Boston  by  substituting  his  boy 
ish  production,  "  Al  Aaraaf,"  for  the  more  serious  poem 
which  he  was  to  have  delivered  before  the  Lyceum.  There 
was  much  curiosity  to  see  him ;  for  his  prose-writings  had 


58  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.         [HiaoixsoN 

been  eagerly  read,  at  least  among  college-students,  and  his 
poems  were  just  beginning  to  excite  still  greater  atten 
tion.  After  a  rather  solid  and  very  partisan  address  by 
Caleb  Gushing,  then  just  returned  from  his  Chinese  em 
bassy,  the  poet  was  introduced.  I  distinctly  recall  his 
face,  with  its  ample  forehead,  brilliant  eyes,  and  narrow 
ness  of  nose  and  chin ;  an  essentially  ideal  face,  not  noble, 
yet  anything  but  coarse ;  with  the  look  of  over-sensitive 
ness  which  when  uncontrolled  may  prove  more  debasing 
than  coarseness.  It  was  a  face  to  rivet  one's  attention  in 
any  crowd,  yet  a  face  that  no  one  would  feel  safe  in  loving. 
It  is  not  perhaps  strange  that  I  find  or  fancy  in  the  por 
trait  of  Charles  Baudelaire,  Poe's  French  admirer  and 
translator,  some  of  the  traits  that  are  indelibly  associated 
with  that  one  glimpse  of  Poe. 

I  remember  that  when  introduced  he  stood  with  a  sort 
of  shrinking  before  the  audience,  and  then  began,  in  a  thin, 
tremulous,  hardly  musical  voice,  an  apology  for  his  poem, 
and  a  deprecation  of  the  expected  criticism  of  the  Boston 
public ;  reiterating  this  in  a  sort  of  persistent,  querulous 
way,  which  did  not  seem  like  satire,  but  impressed  me  at 
the  time  as  nauseous  flattery.  It  was  not  then  generally 
known,  nor  was  it  established  for  a  long  time  after, — even 
when  he  had  himself  asserted  it, — that  the  poet  was  him 
self  born  in  Boston ;  and  no  one  can  now  tell,  perhaps, 
what  was  the  real  feeling  behind  the  apparently  syco 
phantic  attitude.  When,  at  the  end,  he  abruptly  began 
the  recitation  of  his  rather  perplexing  poem,  everybody 
looked  thoroughly  mystified.  The  verses  had  long  since 
been  printed  in  his  youthful  volume,  and  had  reappeared 
within  a  few  days,  if  I  mistake  not,  in  Wiley  &  Putnam's 
edition  of  his  poems ;  and  they  produced  no  very  distinct 
impression  on  the  audience  until  Poe  began  to  read  the 
maiden's  song  in  the  second  part.  Already  his  tones  had 


HIGGINSON]  POE.  59 

been  softening  to  a  finer  melody  than  at  first,  and  when 
he  came  to  the  verse, — 

"  Ligeia !  Ligeia ! 

My  beautiful  one ! 
"Whose  harshest  idea 

"Will  to  melody  run, 
Oh,  is  it  thy  will 

On  the  breezes  to  toss  ? 
Or  capriciously  still, 

Like  the  lone  albatross, 
Incumbent  on  night 

(As  she  on  the  air), 
To  keep  watch  with  delight 

On  the  harmony  there  ?" — 

his  voice  seemed  attenuated  to  the  finest  golden  thread ; 
the  audience  became  hushed,  and,  as  it  were,  breathless ; 
there  seemed  no  life  in  the  hall  but  his ;  and  every  sylla 
ble  was  accentuated  with  such  delicacy,  and  sustained  with 
such  sweetness,  as  I  never  heard  equalled  by  other  lips. 
When  the  lyric  ended,  it  was  like  the  ceasing  of  the  gypsy's 
chant  in  Browning's  "  Flight  of  the  Duchess ;"  and  I  re 
member  nothing  more,  except  that  in  walking  back  to 
Cambridge  my  comrades  and  I  felt  that  we  had  been  under 
the  spell  of  some  wizard.  Indeed,  I  feel  much  the  same 
in  the  retrospect,  to  this  day. 

The  melody  did  not  belong,  in  this  case,  to  the  poet's 
voice  alone :  it  was  already  in  the  words.  His  verse,  when 
he  was  willing  to  give  it  natural  utterance,  was  like  that 
of  Coleridge  in  rich  sweetness,  and,  like  that,  was  often 
impaired  by  theories  of  structure  and  systematic  experi 
ments  in  metre.  Never  in  American  literature,  I  think, 
was  such  a  fountain  of  melody  flung  into  the  air  as  when 
"  Lenore"  first  appeared  in  "  The  Pioneer  j"  and  never  did 
fountain  so  drop  downward  as  when  Poe  rearranged  it  in 


60  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [HIGGINSON 

its  present  form.  The  irregular  measure  had  a  beauty  as 
original  as  that  of  "  Christabel ;"  and  the  lines  had  an 
ever-varying,  ever-lyrical  cadence  of  their  own,  until  their 
author  himself  took  them  and  cramped  them  into  couplets. 
What  a  change  from 

"  Peccavimus! 
But  rave  not  thus  ! 

And  let  the  solemn  song 
Go  up  to  God  so  mournfully  that  she  may  feel  no  wrong  1" 

to  the  amended  version,  portioned  off  in  regular  lengths, 
thus: 

"  Peccavimus  I  but  rave  not  thus  I  and  let  a  Sabbath  song 
Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly,  the  dead  may  feel  no  wrong." 

Or,  worse  yet,  when  he  introduced  that  tedious  jingle  of 
slightly- varied  repetition  which  in  later  years  reached  its 
climax  in  lines  like  these : 

"  Till  the  fair  and  gentle  Eulalie  became  my  blushing  bride, 
Till  the  yellow-haired  young  Eulalie  became  my  smiling  bride." 

This  trick,  caught  from  Poe,  still  survives  in  our  litera 
ture, — made  more  permanent,  perhaps,  by  the  success  of 
his  "  Raven."  This  poem,  which  made  him  popular,  seems 
to  me  far  inferior  to  some  of  his  earlier  and  slighter  effu 
sions  ;  as  those  exquisite  verses  "  To  Helen,"  which  are 
among  our  American  classics,  and  have  made 

"  The  glory  that  was  Greece, 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Home," 

a  permanent  phrase  in  our  language. 

Poe's  place  in  purely  imaginative  prose-writing  is  as 
unquestionable    as    Hawthorne's.      He    even    succeeded, 


HIGGINSOK]  POE.  61 

which  Hawthorne  did  not,  in  penetrating  the  artistic  in 
difference  of  the  French  mind ;  and  it  was  a  substantial 
triumph,  when  we  consider  that  Baudelaire  put  himself 
or  his  friends  to  the  trouble  of  translating  even  the  pro 
longed  platitudes  of  "  Eureka"  and  the  wearisome  narra 
tive  of  "  Arthur  Gordon  Pym."  Neither  Poe  nor  Haw 
thorne  has  ever  been  fully  recognized  in  England ;  and 
3ret  no  Englishman  of  our  time,  not  even  De  Quincey,  has 
done  any  prose  imaginative  work  to  be  named  with  theirs. 
But  in  comparing  Poe  with  Hawthorne  we  see  that  the 
genius  of  the  latter  has  hands  and  feet  as  well  as  wings, 
BO  that  all  his  work  is  solid  as  masonry,  while  Poe's  is 
broken  and  disfigured  by  all  sorts  of  inequalities  and  imi 
tations  ;  he  not  disdaining,  for  want  of  true  integrity,  to 
disguise  and  falsify,  to  claim  knowledge  that  he  did  not 
possess,  to  invent  quotations  and  references,  and  even,  as 
Griswold  showed,  to  manipulate  and  exaggerate  puffs  of 
himself.  .  .  . 

But,  making  all  possible  deductions,  how  wonderful  re 
mains  the  power  of  Poe's  imaginative  tales,  and  how  im 
mense  is  the  ingenuity  of  his  puzzles  and  disentangle- 
ments !  The  conundrums  of  "Wilkie  Collins  never  renew 
their  interest  after  the  answer  is  known ;  but  Poe's  can 
be  read  again  and  again.  It  is  where  spiritual  depths  are 
to  be  touched,  that  he  shows  his  weakness ;  where  he  at 
tempts  it,  as  in  "  William  Wilson,"  it  seems  exceptional ; 
where  there  is  the  greatest  display  of  philosophic  form, 
he  is  often  most  trivial,  whereas  Hawthorne  is  often  pro- 
foundest  when  he  has  disarmed  you  by  his  simplicity. 
The  truth  is,  that  Poe  lavished  on  things  comparatively 
superficial  those  great  intellectual  resources  which  Haw 
thorne  reverently  husbanded  and  used.  That  there  is 
something  behind  even  genius  to  make  or  mar  it, — this  is 
the  lesson  of  the  two  lives. 
ii.  6 


62  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.         [HiaaiNSOS 

Poe  makes  one  of  his  heroes  define  another  as  "  that 
monstrum  horrendum,  an  unprincipled  man  of  genius."  It 
is  in  the  malice  and  fury  of  his  own  critical  work  that  his 
low  moral  tone  most  betrays  itself.  No  atmosphere  can 
be  more  belittling  than  that  of  his  "  New  York  Literati :" 
it  is  a  mass  of  vehement  dogmatism  and  petty  personali 
ties,  opinions  warped  by  private  feeling,  and  varying  from 
page  to  page.  He  seemed  to  have  absolutely  no  fixed 
standard  of  critical  judgment,  though  it  is  true  that  there 
was  very  little  anywhere  in  America  during  those  acrimo 
nious  days,  when  the  most  honorable  head  might  be  cov 
ered  with  insult  or  neglect,  while  any  young  poetess  who 
smiled  sweetly  on  Poe  or  Griswold  or  Willis  might  find 
herself  placed  among  the  Muses.  Poe  complimented  and 
rather  patronized  Hawthorne,  but  found  him  only  "  pecu 
liar,  and  not  original ;"  saying  of  him,  "  He  has  not  half  the 
material  for  the  exclusiveness  of  literature  that  he  has  for 
its  universality,"  whatever  that  may  mean ;  and  finally  he 
tried  to  make  it  appear  that  Hawthorne  had  borrowed 
from  himself.  He  returned  again  and  again  to  the  attack 
on  Longfellow  as  a  wilful  plagiarist,  denouncing  the  trivial 
resemblance  between  his  "  Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying 
Year"  and  Tennyson's  "  Death  of  the  Old  Year"  as  "  be 
longing  to  the  barbarous  class  of  literary  piracy."  To 
make  this  attack  was,  as  he  boasted,  "to  throttle  the 
guilty ;"  and  while  dealing  thus  ferociously  with  Long 
fellow,  thus  condescendingly  with  Hawthorne,  he  was 
claiming  a  foremost  rank  among  American  authors  for 
obscurities  now  forgotten,  such  as  Mrs.  Amelia  B.  Welby 
and  Estelle  Anne  Lewis.  No  one  ever  did  more  than  Poe 
to  lower  the  tone  of  literary  criticism  in  this  .country ;  and 
the  greater  his  talent,  the  greater  the  mischief. 

As  a  poet  he  held  for  a  time  the  place  earlier  occupied 
by  Byron,  and  later  by  Swinburne,  as  the  patron  saint  of 


HIGGINSON]  FOE.  63 

all  -wilful  boys  suspected  of  genius  and  convicted  at  least, 
of  its  infirmities.  He  belonged  to  the  melancholy  class 
of  wasted  men,  like  the  'German  Hoffmann,  whom  per 
haps  of  all  men  of  genius  he  most  resembled.  No  doubt, 
if  we  are  to  apply  any  standard  of  moral  weight  or  sanity 
to  authors, — a  proposal  which  Poe  would  doubtless  have 
ridiculed, — it  can  only  be  in  a  very  large  and  generous 
way.  If  a  career  has  only  a  manly  ring  to  it,  we  can  for 
give  many  errors, — as  in  reading,  for  instance,  the  auto 
biography  of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  carrying  always  his  life 
in  his  hand  amid  a  brilliant  and  reckless  society.  But 
the  existence  of  a  poor  Bohemian,  besotted  when  he  has 
money,  angry  and  vindictive  when  the  money  is  spent, 
this  is  a  dismal  tragedy,  for  which  genius  only  makes  the 
footlights  burn  with  more  lustre.  There  is  a  passage  in 
Keats's  letters,  written  from  the  haunts  of  Burns,  in 
which  he  expresses  himself  as  filled  with  pity  for  the 
poet's  life :  "  he  drank  with  blackguards,  he  was  miser 
able  ;  we  can  see  horribly  clear  in  the  works  of  such  a 
man  his  life,  as  if  we  were  God's  spies."  Yet  Burns's 
sins  and  miseries  left  his  heart  unspoiled,  and  this  cannot 
be  said  of  Poe.  After  all,  the  austere  virtues — the  virtues 
of  Emerson,  Hawthorne,  Whittier — are  the  best  soil  for 
genius. 

I  like  best  to  think  of  Poe  as  associated  with  his  be 
trothed,  Sarah  Helen  Whitman,  whom  I  saw  sometimes 
in  her  later  years.  That  gifted  woman  had  outlived  her 
early  friends  and  loves  and  hopes,  and  perhaps  her  liter 
ary  fame,  such  as  it  was :  she  had  certainly  outlived  her 
recognized  ties  with  Poe,  and  all  but  his  memory.  There 
she  dwelt  in  her  little  suite  of  rooms,  bearing  youth  still 
in  her  heart  and  in  her  voice,  and  on  her  hair  also,  and  in 
her  dress.  Her  dimly-lighted  parlor  was  always  decked, 
here  and  there,  with  scarlet ;  and  she  sat,  robed  in  white, 


64  BEST  AMERICA*  AUTHORS, 

with  her  back  always  turned  to  the  light,  thus  throwing 
a  discreetly-tinted  shadow  over  her  still  thoughtful  and 
noble  face.  She  seemed  a  person  embalmed  while  still 
alive  :  it  was  as  if  she  might  dwell  forever  there,  prolong 
ing  into  an  indefinite  future  the  tradition  of  a  poet's  love ; 
and  when  we  remembered  that  she  had  been  Poe's  be 
trothed,  that  his  kisses  had  touched  her  lips,  that  she  still 
believed  in  him  and  was  his  defender,  all  criticism  might 
well,  for  her  sake,  be  disarmed,  and  her  saintly  life  atone 
{bar  his  stormy  and  sad  career. 


REVIEW  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  SLAVERY. 

GEORGE  BANCROFT. 

[ A  biographical  notice  of  the  d»tingu«hed  author  of  "The  Historr 
of  the  United  States"  »  tartly  called  for.  We  need  only  say  that  lie 
was  bora  at  Worcester,  Massachusetts,  in  1800,  studied  in  tb*  Univer- 
siws  of  Harvard  and  Gottingen,  and  co»iM»rfd  his  historical  labors 
by  the  "History  of  the  fMtwimfrr*  of  the  United  States,"  of  which 
the  tntTohuM  appeared  in  1834  TW  tenth  and  concluding  ToftuM 
of  a»  great  historical  work  was  published  in  1874.  An  an  historian 
i  exalted  position,  his  work  being  noted  alike  for 
in  the  study  of  authorities,  critical  judgment  in 
of  •ofceriak,  tuesuy  of  style,  picturesque  descriptive  pn^my 
and  great  erudition.  It  takes  its  place  among  UK. 
gnat  histories  of  tike  world.] 

WHILE  Virginia,  by  the  concesskm  of  a  representative 
government,  was  constituted  the  asylum  of  liberty,  it  b*- 
r«»Tr  the  abode  of  hereditary  bondsmen. 

Slavery  and  the  slave-trade  are  older  than  the  records  of 
human  society :  they  are  found  to  have  existed  wherever 
the  savage  hunter  began  to  assume  the  habits  of  pas- 


BASCBOTT]  REVIEW  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  SLAVERY.      65 

toral  or  agricultural  life ;  and,  with  the  exception  of  Aus 
tralasia,  they  have  extended  to  every  portion  of  the  globe. 
The  oldest  monuments  of  human  labor  on  the  Egyptian 
soil  are  the  results  of  slave-labor.  The  founder  of  the 
Jewish  people  was  a  slave-holder  and  a  purchaser  of 
slaves.  The  Hebrews,  when  they  broke  from  their  oim 
thraldom,  planted  slavery  in  the  promised  land.  Tyre, 
the  oldest  commercial  city  of  Phoenicia,  was,  like  Baby 
lon,  a  market  "  for  the  persons  of  men." 

Old  as  are  the  traditions  of  Greece,  slavery  is  older. 
The  wrath  of  Achilles  grew  out  of  a  quarrel  for  a  slave ; 
Grecian  dames  had  servile  attendants ;  the  heroes  before 
Troy  made  excursions  into  the  neighboring  villages  and 
towns  to  enslave  the  inhabitants  Greek  pirates,  roving, 
like  the  corsairs  of  Barbary,  in  quest  of  men,  laid  the 
foundations  of  Greek  commerce ;  each  commercial  town 
was  a  slave-mart ;  and  every  cottage  near  the  sea-side  was 
in  danger  from  the  kidnapper.  Greeks  enslaved  each 
other.  The  language  of  Homer  was  the  mother-tongue 
of  the  Helots ;  the  Grecian  city  that  warred  on  its  neigh 
bor  city  made  of  its  captives  a  source  of  profit ;  the  hero 
of  Macedon  sold  men  of  his  own  kindred  and  language 
into  hopeless  slavery.  More  than  four  centuries  before 
the  Christian  era,  Alcidamas,  a  pupil  of  Gorgias,  taught 
that  "  God  has  sent  forth  all  men  free ;  nature  has  made 
no  man  slave."  While  one  class  of  Greek  authors  of  that 
period  confounded  the  authority  of  master  and  head  of  a 
family,  others  asserted  that  the  relation  of  master  and 
slave  is  conventional ;  that  freedom  is  the  law  of  nature, 
which  knows  no  difference  between  master  and  slave ; 
that  slavery  is  the  child  of  violence,  and  inherently  un 
just.  "  A  man,  O  my  master,"  so  speaks  the  slave  in  a 
comedy  of  Philemon,  "because  he  is  a  slave,  does  not 
cease  to  be  a  man.  He  is  of  the  same  flesh  with  you. 
ii.— «  6* 


66  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [BANCROFT 

Nature  makes  no  slaves."  Aristotle,  though  he  recognizes 
"living  chattels"  as  a  part  of  the  complete  family,  has 
left  on  record  his  most  deliberate  judgment,  that  the  prize 
of  freedom  should  be  placed  within  the  reach  of  every 
slave.  Yet  the  idea  of  universal  free  labor  was  only  u 
dormant  bud,  not  to  be  quickened  for  many  centuries. 

Slavery  hastened  the  fall  of  the  commonwealth  of  Rome. 
The  power  of  the  father  to  sell  his  children,  of  the  cred 
itor  to  sell  his  insolvent  debtor,  of  the  warrior  to  sell  his 
captive,  carried  it  into  the  bosom  of  every  family,  into 
the  conditions  of  every  contract,  into  the  heart  of  every 
unhappy  land  that  was  invaded  by  the  Roman  eagle.  The 
slave-markets  of  Rome  were  filled  with  men  of  various 
nations  and  colors.  "  Slaves  are  they !"  writes  Seneca ; 
"say  that  they  are  men."  The  golden-mouthed  orator 
Dion  inveighs  against  hereditary  slavery  as  at  war  with 
right.  "  By  the  law  of  nature,  all  men  are  born  free,"  are 
the  words  of  Ulpian.  The  Roman  digests  pronounce 
slavery  "  contrary  to  nature." 

In  the  middle  age  the  pirate  and  the  kidnapper  and  the 
conqueror  still  continued  the  slave-trade.  The  Saxon  race 
carried  the  most  repulsive  forms  of  slavery  to  England, 
where  not  half  the  population  could  assert  a  right  to  free 
dom,  and  where  the  price  of  a  man  was  but  four  times  the 
price  of  an  ox.  In  defiance  of  severe  penalties,  the  Saxons 
long  continued  to  sell  their  own  kindred  into  slavery  on 
the  continent.  Even  after  the  conquest,  slaves  were  ex 
ported  from  England  to  Ireland,  till,  in  1102,  a  national 
Bynod  of  the  Irish,  to  remove  the  pretext  for  an  invasion, 
decreed  the  emancipation  of  all  their  English  slaves. 

The  German  nations  made  the  shores  of  the  Baltic  the 
scenes  of  the  same  traffic ;  and  the  Dnieper  formed  tho 
highway  on  which  Russian  merchants  conveyed  slaves 
from  the  markets  of  Russia  to  Constantinople.  The 


BANCROFT]  REVIEW  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  SLA  VERY.      67 

•wretched  often  submitted  to  bondage  as  the  only  refuge 
from  want.  But  it  was  the  long  wars  between  German 
and  Slavonic  tribes  which  imparted  to  the  slave-trade  so 
great  activity  that  in  every  country  of  "Western  Europe 
the  whole  class  of  bondmen  took  and  still  retain  the  name 
<  f  Slaves. 

In  Sicily,  natives  of  Asia  and  Africa  were  exposed  for 
sale.  From  extreme  poverty  the  Arab  father  would  pawn 
even  his  children  to  the  Italian  merchant.  Rome  itself 
long  remained  a  mart  where  Christian  slaves  were  exposed 
for  sale,  to  supply  the  market  of  Mahometans.  The  Ve 
netians  purchased  alike  infidels  and  Christians,  and  sold 
them  again  to  the  Arabs  in  Sicily  and  Spain.  Christian 
and  Jewish  avarice  supplied  the  slave-market  of  the  Sara 
cens.  The  trade,  though  censured  by  the  church  and  pro- 
nibited  by  the  laws  of  Venice,  was  not  effectually  checked 
till  the  mere  presence  in  a  Venetian  ship  was  made  the 
sufficient  evidence  of  freedom. 

In  the  twelfth  century,  Pope  Alexander  III.  had  writ 
ten  that,  "  nature  having  made  no  slaves,  all  men  have  an 
equal  right  to  liberty."  Yet,  as  among  Mahometans  the 
captive  Christian  had  no  alternative  but  apostasy  or  ser 
vitude,  the  captive  infidel  was  treated  in  Christendom  with 
corresponding  intolerance.  In  the  camp  of  the  leader 
whose  pious  arms  redeemed  the  sepulchre  of  Christ  from 
the  mixed  nations  of  Asia  and  Libya,  the  price  of  a  wai- 
horse  was  three  slaves.  The  Turks,  whose  law  forbade 
the  enslaving  of  Mussulmans,  continued  to  sell  Christian 
and  other  captives;  and  Smith,  the  third  President  of 
Virginia,  relates  that  he  was  himself  a  runaway  from 
Turkish  bondage. 

All  this  might  have  had  no  influence  on  the  destinies 
of  America  but  for  the  long  and  doubtful  struggles  be 
tween  Christians  and  Moors  in  the  west  of  Europe,  where> 


68  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [BANCROFT 

for  more  than  seven  centuries,  the  two  religions  were  ar 
rayed  against  each  other,  and  bondage  was  the  reciprocal 
doom  of  the  captive.  France  and  Italy  were  filled  with 
Saracen  slaves ;  the  number  of  them  sold  into  Christian 
bondage  exceeded  the  number  of  all  the  Christians  ever 
sold  by  the  pirates  of  Barbary.  The  clergy  felt  no  sym 
pathy  for  the  unbeliever.  The  final  victory  of  the  Span 
iards  over  the  Moors  of  Granada,  an  event  contemporary 
with  the  discovery  of  America,  was  signalized  by  a  great 
emigration  of  the  Moors  to  the  coasts  of  Northern  Africa, 
where  each  mercantile  city  became  a  nest  of  pirates,  and 
every  Christian  the  wonted  booty  of  the  corsair :  an  in 
discriminate  and  retaliating  bigotry  gave  to  all  Africans 
the  denomination  of  Moors,  and  without  scruple  reduced 
them  to  bondage. 

The  clergy  had  broken  up  the  Christian  slave-markets 
at  Bristol  and  at  Hamburg,  at  Lyons  and  at  Rome.  In 
language  addressed  half  to  the  courts  of  law  and  half  to 
the  people,  Louis  X.,  by  the  advice  of  the  jurists  of  France, 
in  July,  1315,  published  the  ordinance  that,  by  the  law  of 
nature,  every  man  ought  to  be  born  free ;  that  serfs  were 
held  in  bondage  only  by  a  suspension  of  their  early  and 
natural  rights;  that  liberty  should  be  restored  to  them 
throughout  the  kingdom  so  far  as  the  royal  power  ex 
tended  ;  and  every  master  of  slaves  was  invited  to  follow 
his  example  by  bringing  them  all  back  to  their  original 
state  of  freedom.  Some  years  later,  John  de  Wycliffo 
asserted  the  unchristian  character  of  slavery.  At  the 
epoch  of  the  discovery  of  America  the  moral  opinion  of 
the  civilized  world  had  abolished  the  trade  in  Christian 
slaves,  and  was  demanding  the  emancipation  of  the  serfs ; 
but  the  infidel  was  not  yet  included  within  the  pale  of 
humanity. 

Yet  negro  slavery  is  not  an  invention  of  the  white  man. 


BANCROFT]  REVIEW  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  SLAVERY.      fc 

As  Greeks  enslaved  Greeks,  as  Anglo-Saxons  dealt  in  An 
glo-Saxons,  so  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  land  of  the  black 
men  bear  witness  that  negro  masters  held  men  of  their 
own  race  as  slaves,  and  sold  them  to  others.  This  the 
oldest  Greek  historian  commemorates.  Negro  slaves  were 
seen  in  classic  Greece,  and  were  known  at  Eome  and  in 
the  Eoman  Empire.  About  the  year  990,  Moorish  mer 
chants  from  the  Barbary  coast  reached  the  cities  of  Ni- 
gritia,  and  established  an  uninterrupted  exchange  of  Sar 
acen  and  European  luxuries  for  the  gold  and  slaves  of 
Central  Africa. 

Not  long  after  the  conquests  of  the  Portuguese  in  Bar 
bary,  their  navy  frequented  the  ports  of  Western  Africa ; 
and  the  first  ships,  which,  in  1441,  sailed  so  far  south  as 
Cape  Blanco,  returned  not  with  negroes,  but  with  Moors. 
These  were  treated  as  strangers,  from  whom  information 
respecting  their  native  country  was  to  be  derived.  An 
tony  Gonzalez,  who  had  brought  them  to  Portugal,  was 
commanded  to  restore  them  to  their  ancient  homes.  He 
did  so ;  and  the  Moors  gave  him  as  their  ransom  not  gold 
only,  but  "  black  Moors"  with  curled  hair.  Negro  slaves 
immediately  became  an  object  of  commerce.  The  historian 
of  the  maritime  discoveries  of  Spain  even  claims  that  she 
anticipated  the  Portuguese.  The  merchants  of  Seville 
imported  gold  dust  and  slaves  from  the  western  coast  of 
Africa;  so  that  negro  slavery  was  established  in  Anda 
lusia,  and  "  abounded  in  the  city  of  Seville,"  before  the 
first  voyage  of  Columbus. 

The  adventurers  of  those  days  by  sea,  joining  the  creed 
of  bigots  with  the  designs  of  pirates  and  heroes,  esteemed 
as  their  rightful  plunder  the  wealth  of  the  countries 
which  they  might  discover,  and  the  inhabitants,  if  Chris 
tians,  as  their  subjects ;  if  infidels,  as  their  slaves.  There 
was  hardly  a  convenient  harbor  on  the  Atlantic  frontier 


70  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [BANCROFT 

of  the  United  States  which  was  not  entered  by  slavers. 
The  red  men  of  the  wilderness,  unlike  the  Africans,  among 
whom  slavery  had  existed  from  immemorial  time,  would 
never  abet  the  foreign  merchant  in  the  nefarious  traffic. 
Fraud  and  force  remained,  therefore,  the  means  by  which, 
near  Newfoundland  or  Florida,  on  the  shores  of  the  At 
lantic,  or  among  the  Indians  of  the  Mississippi  valley, 
Cortereal  and  Yasquez  de  Ayllon,  Porcallo  and  Soto,  and 
private  adventurers,  transported  the  natives  of  North 
America  into  slavery  in  Europe  and  the  Spanish  West 
Indies.  Columbus  himself,  in  1494,  enslaving  five  hundred 
native  Americans,  sent  them  to  Spain,  that  they  might  be 
publicly  sold  at  Seville.  The  generous  Isabella,  in  1500, 
commanded  the  liberation  of  the  Indians  held  in  bondage 
in  her  European  possessions.  Yet  her  active  benevolence 
extended  neither  to  the  Moors  nor  to  the  Africans ;  and 
even  her  compassion  for  the  men  of  the  New  World  was 
but  transient.  The  commissions  for  making  discoveries, 
issued  a  few  days  before  and  after  her  interference  to 
rescue  those  whom  Columbus  had  enslaved,  reserved  for 
herself  and  Ferdinand  a  fourth  part  of  the  slaves  which 
the  new  kingdoms  might  contain.  The  slavery  of  Indians 
was  recognized  as  lawful. 

A  royal  edict  of  1501  permitted  negro  slaves,  born  in 
slavery  among  Christians,  to  be  transported.  Within  two 
years  there  were  such  numbers  of  Africans  in  Hispani- 
ola  that  Ovando,  the  governor  of  the  island,  entreated 
that  their  coming  might  be  restrained.  For  a  short  timo 
the  Spanish  government  forbade  the  introduction  of  negro 
slaves  who  had  been  bred  in  Moorish  families,  and  allowed 
only  those  who  were  said  to  have  been  instructed  in  the 
Christian  faith  to  bo  transported  to  the  West  Indies,  under 
the  plea  that  they  might  assist  in  converting  infidel  na 
tions.  But,  after  the  culture  of  sugar  was  begun,  the 


BANCROFT]  REVIEW  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  SLAVERY.      71 

system  of  slavery  easily  overcame  the  scruples  of  men  in 
power.  King  Ferdinand  himself  sent  from  Seville  fifty 
slaves  to  labor  in  the  mines,  and  promised  to  send  more ; 
and,  because  it  was  said  that  one  negro  could  do  the  work 
of  four  Indians,  the  direct  transportation  of  slaves  from 
Guinea  to  Hispaniola  was.  in  1511,  enjoined  by  a  royal 
ordinance,  and  deliberately  sanctioned  by  successive  de 
crees.  Was  it  not  natural  that  Charles  V.,  a  youthful 
monarch,  at  his  accession  in  1516,  should  have  readily 
granted  licenses  to  the  Flemings  to  transport  negroes  to 
the  colonies?  The  benevolent  Las  Casas,  who  felt  for  the 
native  inhabitants  of  the  New  World  all  that  the  purest 
missionary  zeal  could  inspire,  and  who  had  seen  them 
vanish  away  like  dew  before  the  cruelties  of  the  Spaniards 
while  the  African  thrived  under  the  tropical  sun,  in  1517 
suggested  that  negroes  might  still  further  be  employed  to 
perform  the  severe  toils  which  they  alone  could  endure. 
The  board  of  trade  at  Seville  was  consulted,  to  learn  how 
many  slaves  would  be  required ;  four  for  each  Spanish 
emigrant  had  been  proposed  ;  deliberate  calculation  fixed 
the  number  at  four  thousand  a  year.  In  1518  the  mo 
nopoly,  for  eight  years,  of  annually  importing  four  thou 
sand  slaves  into  the  West  Indies  was  granted  by  Charles 
V.  to  La  Bresa,  one  of  his  favorites,  and  was  sold  to  the 
Genoese.  The  buyers  of  the  contract  purchased  their 
slaves  of  the  Portuguese,  to  whom  a  series  of  papal  bulls 
had  indeed  granted  the  exclusive  commerce  with  Western 
Africa ;  but  the  slave-trade  between  Africa  and  America 
was  never  expressly  sanctioned  by  the  see  of  Rome.  Leo 
X.  declared  that  "not  the  Christian  religion  only,  but 
Nature  herself,  cries  out  against  the  state  of  slavery." 
Paul  III.,  two  years  after  he  had  given  authority  to  make 
slaves  of  every  English  person  who  would  not  assist  in 
the  expulsion  of  Henry  VIII.,  in  two  separate  briefs  im- 


72  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [BANCROFT 

precated  a  curse  on  the  Europeans  who  should  enslave 
Indians,  or  any  other  class  of  men.  Ximenes,  the  stern 
grand-inquisitor,  the  austere  but  ambitious  Franciscan, 
refused  to  sanction  the  introduction  of  negroes  into  His- 
paniola,  believing  that  the  favorable  climate  would  in 
crease  their  numbers  and  infallibly  lead  them  to  a  success 
ful  revolt.  Hayti,  the  first  spot  in  America  that  received 
African  slaves,  was  the  first  to  set  the  example  of  African 
liberty. 

The  odious  distinction  of  having  first  interested  England 
in  the  slave-trade  belongs  to  Sir  John  Hawkins.  In  1562 
he  transported  a  large  cargo  of  Africans  to  Hispaniola ; 
the  rich  returns  of  sugar,  ginger,  and  pearls  attracted  the 
notice  of  Queen  Elizabeth ;  and  five  years  later  she  took 
shares  in  a  new  expedition,  though  the  commerce,  on  the 
part  of  the  English,  in  Spanish  ports,  was  by  the  law  of 
Spain  illicit,  as  well  as  by  the  law  of  morals  detestable. 

Conditional  servitude,  under  indentures  or  covenants, 
had  from  the  first  existed  in  Virginia.  Once  at  least 
James  sent  over  convicts,  and  once  at  least  the  city  of 
London  a  hundred  homeless  children  from  its  streets. 
The  servant  stood  to  his  master  in  the  relation  of  a 
debtor,  bound  to  discharge  by  his  labor  the  costs  of 
emigration.  White  servants  came  to  be  a  usual  article 
of  merchandise.  They  were  sold  in  England  to  be  trans 
ported,  and  in  Virginia  were  to  be  purchased  on  ship 
board.  Not  the  Scots  only,  who  were  taken  in  the  field 
of  Dunbar,  were  sold  into  servitude  in  New  England,  but 
the  royalist  prisoners  of  the  battle  of  Worcester.  The 
leaders  in  the  insurrection  of  Penruddoc,  in  spite  of  the 
remonstrance  of  Haselrig  and  Henry  Yane,  were  shipped 
to  America.  At  the  corresponding  period,  in  Ireland,  the 
exportation  of  Irish  Catholics  was  frequent.  In  1672,  the 
average  price  in  the  colonies,  where  five  years  of  service 


BANCROFT]  REVIEW  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  SLAVERY.      73 

were  due,  was  about  ten  pounds,  while  a  negro  was  worth 
twenty  or  twenty-five  pounds. 

The  condition  of  apprenticed  servants  in  Virginia  dif 
fered  from  that  of  slaves  chiefly  in  the  duration  of  their 
bondage ;  the  laws  of  the  colony  favored  their  early  en 
franchisement.  But  this  state  of  labor  easily  admitted 
the  introduction  of  perpetual  servitude.  In  the  month 
of  August,  1619,  five  years  after  the  commons  of  France 
had  petitioned  for  the  emancipation  of  every  serf  in  every 
fief,  a  Dutch  man-of-war  entered  James  River  and  landed 
twenty  negroes  for  sale.  This  is  the  sad  epoch  of  the 
introduction  of  negro  slavery ;  but  the  traffic  would  have 
been  checked  in  its  infancy  had  it  remained  with  the 
Dutch.  Thirty  years  after  this  first  importation  of  Afri 
cans,  Virginia  to  one  black  contained  fifty  whites;  and, 
after  seventy  years  of  its  colonial  existence,  the  number 
of  its  negro  slaves  was  proportionably  much  less  than  in 
several  Northern  States  at  the  time  of  the  war  of  inde 
pendence.  Had  no  other  form  of  servitude  been  known 
in  Virginia  than  of  men  of  the  same  race,  every  difficulty 
would  have  been  promptly  obviated.  But  the  Ethiopian 
and  Caucasian  races  were  to  meet  together  in  nearly 
equal  numbers  beneath  a  temperate  zone.  Who  could 
foretell  the  issue  ?  The  negro  race,  from  its  introduction, 
was  regarded  with  disgust,  and  its  union  with  the  whites 
forbidden  under  ignominious  penalties. 


II. — D 


74  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [Srow« 

SAM  LAWSON,  THE  VILLAGE  DO-NOTHING. 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

[The  author  of  the  celebrated  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin, '•  daughter  of 
the  Rev.  Lyman  Beecher,  and  sister  of  the  noted  pulpit-orator  Henry 
Ward  Beecher,  was  born  at  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  in  1812.  The  im 
mediate  and  extraordinary  popularity  of  the  work  above  named  is  one 
of  the  curiosities  of  literature,  and  its  total  sale  was  unpreoedentedly 
large.  Mrs.  Stowe  has  written  many  other  novels,  in  all  of  which  she 
displays  an  insight  into  human  nature,  rich  powers  of  description, 
earnest  pathos,  and  a  command  of  language  unsurpassed  by  those  of 
any  other  American  novelist.  "  Oldtown  Folks,"  from  which  we  take 
our  selection,  is  a  more  polished  and  finished  work  than  "  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin,"  and  as  a  character-picture  of  New  England  life  in  a  past  gen 
eration  it  must  be  viewed  as  a  work  of  high  art.  It  has  not  its  equal, 
in  this  respect,  in  American  literature.] 

"  WAL,  naow,  Horace,  don't  ye  cry  so.  "Why,  I'm  railly 
eunsarned  for  ye.  Why,  don't  you  s'pose  your  daddy's 
better  off?  "Why,  sartin  Jdo.  Don't  cry,  there's  a  good 
boy,  now.  I'll  give  ye  my  jack-knife,  now." 

This  was  addressed  to  me  the  day  after  my  father's 
death,  while  the  preparations  for  the  funeral  hung  like  a 
pall  over  the  house,  and  the  terror  of  the  last  cold  mys 
tery,  the  tears  of  my  mother,  and  a  sort  of  bustling  dreari 
ness  on  the  part  of  my  aunts  and  grandmother,  all  con 
spired  to  bear  down  on  my  childish  nerves  with  fearful 
power.  It  was  a  doctrine  of  those  good  old  times,  no  less 
than  of  many  in  our  present  days,  that  a  house  invaded 
by  death  should  be  made  as  forlorn  as  hands  could  make 
it.  It  should  be  rendered  as  cold  and  stiff,  as  unnatural,  as 
dead  and  corpse-like,  as  possible,  by  closed  shutters,  looking- 
glasses  pinned  up  in  white  sheets,  and  the  locking  up  and 
hiding  out  of  sight  of  any  pleasant  little  familiar  object 
which  would  be  thought  out  of  place  in  a  sepulchre.  This 


SAM  LA  WSON,  THE  VILLAGE  DO-NOTHING.        75 

work  had  been  driven  through  with  unsparing  vigor  by 
Aunt  Lois,  who  looked  like  one  of  the  Fates  as  she  remorse 
lessly  cleared  away  every  little  familiar  object  belonging 
to  my  father,  and  reduced  every  room  to  the  shrouded 
stillness  of  a  well-kept  tomb. 

Of  course  no  one  thought  of  looking  after  ine.  It  was 
not  the  fashion  of  those  days  to  think  of  children,  if  only 
they  would  take  themselves  off  out  of  the  way  of  the 
movements  of  the  grown  people ;  and  so  I  had  run  out 
into  the  orchard  back  of  the  house,  and,  throwing  myself 
down  on  my  face  under  an  apple-tree  in  the  tall  clover,  I 
gave  myself  up  to  despair,  and  was  sobbing  aloud  in  a 
nervous  paroxysm  of  agony,  when  these  words  were  ad 
dressed  to  me.  The  speaker  was  a  tall,  shambling,  loose- 
jointed  man,  with  a  long,  thin  visage,  prominent  watery 
blue  eyes,  very  fluttering  and  seedy  habiliments,  who  oc 
cupied  the  responsible  position  of  first  do-nothing-in-ordi- 
nary  in  our  village  of  Oldtown,  and  as  such  I  must  intro 
duce  him  to  my  readers'  notice. 

Every  New  England  village,  if  you  only  think  of  it, 
must  have  its  do-nothing  as  regularly  as  it  has  its  school- 
house  or  meeting-house.  Nature  is  always  wide  awake 
in  the  matter  of  compensation.  Work,  thrift,  and  indus 
try  are  such  an  incessant  steam-power  in  Yankee  life,  that 
society  would  burn  itself  out  with  intense  friction  were 
there  not  interposed  here  and  there  the  lubricating  power 
of  a  decided  do-nothing, — a  man  who  won't  be  hurried) 
and  won't  work,  and  will  take  his  ease  in  his  own  way,  in 
spite  of  the  whole  protest  of  his  neighborhood  to  the  con 
trary.  And  there  is  on  the  face  of  the  whole  earth  no  do- 
nothing  whose  softness,  idleness,  general  inaptitude  to 
labor,  and  everlasting,  universal  shiftlessness  can  compare 
with  that  of  this  worthy,  as  found  in  a  brisk  Yankee 
village. 


76  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Sam  Lawson  filled  this  post  with  ample  "honor  in  Old- 
town.  He  was  a  fellow  dear  to  the  souls  of  all  "  us  boys" 
in  the  village,  because,  from  the  special  nature  of  his  po 
sition  he  never  had  anything  more  pressing  to  do  thun 
croon  and  gossip  with  us.  He  was  ready  to  spend  hours 
in  tinkering  a  boy's  jack-knife  or  mending  his  skate,  or 
start  at  the  smallest  notice  to  watch  at  a  woodchuck's 
hole,  or  give  incessant  service  in  tending  a  dog's  sprained 
paw.  He  was  always  on  hand  to  go  fishing  with  us  on 
Saturday  afternoons ;  and  I  have  known  him  to  sit  hour 
after  hour  on  the  bank,  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  boys, 
baiting  our  hooks  and  taking  off  our  fish.  He  was  a  soft 
hearted  old  body,  and  the  wrigglings  and  contortions  of  our 
prey  used  to  disturb  his  repose,  so  that  it  was  a  regular 
part  of  his  work  to  kill  the  fish  by  breaking  their  necks 
when  he  took  them  from  the  hooks. 

"  "Why,  lordy  massy,  boys,"  he  would  say,  "  I  can't  bear 
to  see  no  kind  o'  critter  in  torment.  These  'ere  pouts 
ain't  to  blame  for  bein'  fish,  and  ye  ought  to  put  'em  out 
of  their  misery.  Fish  hes  their  rights  as  well  as  any 
on  us." 

Nobody  but  Sam  would  have  thought  of  poking  through 
the  high  grass  and  clover  on  our  back  lot  to  look  me  up, 
as  I  lay  sobbing  under  the  old  apple-tree,  the  most  in 
significant  little  atom  of  misery  that  ever  bewailed  the 
inevitable. 

Sam  was  of  respectable  family,  and  not  destitute  of 
education.  He  was  an  expert  in  at  least  five  or  six  differ 
ent  kinds  of  handicraft,  in  all  of  which  he  had  been  pro 
nounced  by  the  knowing  ones  to  be  a  capable  workman, 
"  if  only  he  would  stick  to  it."  He  had  a  blacksmith's  shop, 
where,  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  he  would  shoe  a  horse 
better  than  any  man  in  the  county.  No  one  could  supply 
a  missing  screw,  or  apply  a  timely  brace,  with  more  adroit- 


STOWE]  SAM  LA  WSON,  THE  VILLAGE  DO-NOTHING.       77 

ness.  He  could  mend  cracked  china  so  as  to  be  almost  as 
good  as  new ;  he  could  use  carpenter's  tools  as  well  as  a 
born  carpenter,  and  would  doctor  a  rheumatic  door  or  a 
shaky  window  better  than  half  the  professional  artisans 
in  "wood.  No  man  could  put  a  refractory  clock  to  rights 
•with  more  ingenuity  than  Sam, — that  is,  if  you  would 
give  him  his  time  to  be  about  it. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  wrath  and  dismay  which  he 
roused  in  my  aunt  Lois's  mind  by  the  leisurely  way  in 
•which,  after  having  taken  our  own  venerable  kitchen 
clock  to  pieces,  and  strewn  the  fragments  all  over  the 
kitchen,  he  would  roost  over  it  in  endless  incubation,  tell 
ing  stories,  entering  into  long-winded  theological  discus 
sions,  smoking  pipes,  and  giving  histories  of  all  the  other 
clocks  in  Oldtown,  with  occasional  memoirs  of  those  in 
Needmore,  the  North  Parish,  and  Podunk,  as  passively 
indifferent  to  all  her  volleys  of  sarcasm  and  contempt,  her 
stinging  expostulations  and  philippics,  as  the  sailing  old 
moon  is  to  the  frisky,  animated  barking  of  some  puppy 
dog  of  earth. 

"  Why,  ye  see,  Miss  Lois,"  he  would  say,  "  clocks  can't 
be  druv;  that's  jest  what  they  can't.  Some  things  can  be 
druv,  and  then  ag'in  some  things  can't,  and  clocks  is  that 
kind.  They's  jest  got  to  be  humored.  Now,  this  'ere's  a 
'mazin'  good  clock ;  give  me  my  time  on  it,  and  I'll  have 
it  so  'twill  keep  straight  on  to  the  Millennium." 

"  Millennium !"  says  Aunt  Lois,  with  a  snort  of  infinite 
contempt. 

"  Yes,  the  Millennium,"  says  Sam,  letting  fall  his  work 
in  a  contemplative  manner.  "  That  'ere's  an  interestin' 
topic,  now.  Parson  Lothrop  he  don't  think  the  Millennium 
will  last  a  thousand  years.  What's  your  'pinion  on  that 
pint,  Miss  Lois?" 

"  My  opinion  is,"  said  Aunt  Lois,  in  her  most  nipping 
ii.  7* 


78  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

tones,  "  that  if  folks  don't  mind  their  own  business,  and 
do  with  their  might  what  their  hand  finds  to  do,  the  Mil 
lennium  won't  come  at  all." 

"  Wai,  you  see,  Miss  Lois,  it's  just  here, — one  day  is 
with  the  Lord  as  a  thousand  years,  and  a  thousand  years 
as  one  day." 

"  I  should  think  you  thought  a  day  was  a  thousand 
years,  the  way  you  work,"  said  Aunt  Lois. 

"  Wai,"  said  Sam,  sitting  down  with  his  back  to  his 
desperate  litter  of  wheels,  weights,  and  pendulums,  and 
meditatively  caressing  his  knee  as  he  watched  the  sailing 
clouds  in  abstract  meditation,  "ye  see,  ef  a  thing's  or 
dained,  why  it's  got  to  be,  ef  you  don't  lift  a  finger.  That 
'ere's  so  now,  ain't  it  ?" 

"  Sam  Lawson,  you  are  about  the  most  aggravating 
creature  I  ever  had  to  do  with.  Here  you've  got  our 
clock  all  to  pieces,  and  have  been  keeping  up  a  perfect 
hurrah's  nest  in  our  kitchen  for  three  days,  and  there  you 
sit  maundering  and  talking  with  your  back  to  your  work, 
fussing  about  the  Millennium,  which  is  none  of  your  busi 
ness,  or  mine,  as  I  know  of!  Do  either  put  that  clock 
together  or  let  it  alone !" 

"  Don't  you  be  a  grain  uneasy,  Miss  Lois.  Why,  I'll 
have  your  clock  all  right  in  the  end,  but  I  can't  be  druv. 
Wai,  I  guess  I'll  take  another  spell  on't  to-morrow  or 
Friday." 

Poor  Aunt  Lois,  horror-stricken,  but  seeing  herself  ac 
tually  in  the  hands  of  the  imperturbable  enemy,  now  es 
sayed  the  tack  of  conciliation.  "  Now  do,  Lawson,  just 
finish  up  this  job,  and  I'll  pay  you  down,  right  on  the 
spot ;  and  you  need  the  money." 

"I'd  like  to  'blige  ye,  Miss  Lois;  but  ye  see  money  ain't 
everything  in  this  world.  Ef  I  work  tew  long  on  one 
thing,  my  mind  kind  o'  gives  out,  ye  see ;  and,  besides, 


STOWE]  SAM  LAWSON,  THE  VILLAGE  DO-NOTHING.        79 

I've  got  some  'sponsibilities  to  'tend  to.  There's  Mrs. 
Captain  Brown,  she  made  me  promise  to  come  to-day  and 
look  at  the  nose  o'  that  'ere  silver  teapot  o'  hern ;  it's  kind 
o'  sprung  a  leak.  And  then  I  'greed  to  split  a  little  oven- 
wood  for  the  "VViddah  Pedee,  that  lives  up  on  the  Shelburn 
road.  Must  visit  the  widdahs  in  their  affliction,  Scriptur' 
says.  And  then  there's  Hepsy :  she's  allers  a-castin'  it  up 
at  me  that  I  don't  do  nothing  for  her  and  the  chil'en  ;  but 
then,  lordy  massy,  Hepsy  hain't  no  sort  o'  patience.  Why, 
jest  this  mornin'  I  was  a-tellin'  her  to  count  up  her  mar- 
cies,  and  I  'clare  for't  if  I  didn't  think  she'd  'a'  throwed 
the  tongs  at  me.  That  'ere  woman's  temper  railly  makes 
me  consarned.  "Wai,  good-day,  Miss  Lois.  I'll  be  along 
igain  to-morrow  or  Friday,  or  the  first  o'  next  week." 
And  away  he  went  with  long,  loose  strides  down  the  vil 
lage  street,  while  the  leisurely  wail  of  an  old  fuguing  tuno 
floated  back  after  him, — 

"  Thy  years  are  an 
Etarnal  day, 
Thy  years  are  an 
Etarnal  day." 

"An  eternal  torment,"  said  Aunt  Lois,  with  a  snap. 
"  I'm  sure,  if  there's  a  mortal  creature  on  this  earth  that 
I  pity,  it's  Hepsy  Lawson.  Folks  talk  about  her  scold 
ing:  that  Sam  Lawson  is  enough  to  make  the  saints  in 
heaven  fall  from  grace.  And  you  can't  do  anything  with 
him :  it's  like  charging  bayonet  into  a  wool-sack." 

Now,  the  Hepsy  thus  spoken  of  was  the  luckless  woman 
whom  Sam's  easy  temper,  and  a  certain  youthful  reputa 
tion  for  being  a  capable  fellow,  had  led  years  before  into 
the  snares  of  matrimony  with  him,  in  consequence  of 
which  she  was  encumbered  with  the  bringing-up  of  six 
children  on  very  short  rations.  She  was  a  gnarly,  com- 


80  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [Slow* 

pact,  efficient  little  pepper-box  of  a  woman,  with  snapping 
black  eyes,  pale  cheeks,  and  a  mouth  always  at  half-cock, 
ready  to  go  off  with  some  sharp  crack  of  reproof  at  the 
shoreless,  bottomless,  and  tideless  inefficiency  of  her  hus 
band.  It  seemed  to  be  one  of  those  facts  of  existence 
that  she  could  not  get  used  to,  nor  find  anywhere  in  her 
brisk,  fiery  little  body  a  grain  of  cool  resignation  for 
Day  after  day  she  fought  it  with  as  bitter  and  intense  a 
vigor,  and  with  as  much  freshness  of  objurgation,  as  if  it 
had  come  upon  her  for  the  first  time, — just  as  a  sharp, 
wiry  little  terrier  will  bark  and  bark  from  day  to  day, 
with  never-ceasing  pertinacity,  into  an  empty  squirrel-hole. 
She  seemed  to  have  no  power  within  her  to  receive  and  as 
similate  the  great  truth  that  her  husband  was  essentially, 
and  was  to  be  and  always  would  be,  only  a.  do-nothing. 

Poor  Hepsy  was  herself  quite  as  essentially  a  do-some 
thing, — an  early-rising,  bustling,  driving,  neat,  efficient, 
capable  little  body,  who  contrived,  by  going  out  to  day's 
works, — washing,  scrubbing,  cleaning, — by  making  vests 
for  the  tailor,  or  closing  and  binding  shoes  for  the  shoe 
maker,  by  hoeing  corn  and  potatoes  in  the  garden  at  most 
unseasonable  hours,  actually  to  find  bread  to  put  into  the 
mouths  of  the  six  young  ravens  aforesaid,  and  to  clothe 
them  decently.  This  might  all  do  very  well ;  but  when 
Sam — who  believed  with  all  his  heart  in  the  modern  doc 
trines  of  woman's  rights  so  far  as  to  have  no  sort  of  ob 
jection  to  Hepsy's  sawing  wood  or  hoeing  potatoes  if  she 
chose — would  make  the  small  degree  of  decency  and  pros 
perity  the  family  had  attained  by  these  means  a  text  on 
which  to  preach  resignation,  cheerfulness,  and  submission, 
then  Hepsy's  last  cobweb  of  patience  gave  out,  and  she 
often  became,  for  the  moment,  really  dangerous,  so  that 
Sam  would  be  obliged  to  plunge  hastily  out  of  doors  to 
avoid  a  strictly  personal  encounter. 


STOWE]  SAM  LAWSON,  THE  VILLAGE  DO-NOTHING.        81 

It  was  not  to  be  denied  that  poor  Hepsy  really  was  a 
scold,  in  the  strong  old  Saxon  acceptation  of  the  word. 
She  had  fought  life  single-handed,  tooth  and  nail,  with  all 
the  ferocity  of  outraged  sensibilities,  and  had  come  out  of 
the  fight  scratched  and  dishevelled,  with  few  womanly 
graces.  The  good-wives  of  the  village,  versed  in  the  outs 
and  ins  of  their  neighbors'  affairs,  while  they  admitted 
that  Sam  was  not  all  he  should  be,  would  sometimes  roll 
up  the  whites  of  their  eyes  mysteriously,  and  say,  "  But 
then,  poor  man,  what  could  you  expect,  when  he  hasn't  a 
happy  home  ?  Hepsy's  temper  is,  you  know,"  etc.,  etc. 

The  fact  is,  that  Sam's  softly  easy  temper  and  habits  of 
miscellaneous  handiness  caused  him  to  have  a  warm  corner 
in  most  of  the  households.  No  mothers  ever  are  very 
hard  on  a  man  who  always  pleases  the  children  ;  and 
every  one  knows  the  welcome  of  a  universal  gossip,  who 
carries  round  a  district  a  wallet  of  choice  bits  of  neigh 
borhood  information. 

Kow,  Sam  knew  everything  about  everybody.  He 
could  tell  Mrs.  Major  Broad  just  what  Lady  Lothrop  gave 
for  her  best  parlor  carpet,  that  was  brought  over  from  Eng 
land,  and  just  on  what  occasions  she  used  the  big  silver 
tankard,  and  on  what  they  were  content  with  the  little 
one,  and  how  many  pairs  of  long  silk  stockings  the  min 
ister  had,  and  how  many  rows  of  stitching  there  were 
on  the  shoulders  of  his  Sunday  shirts.  He  knew  just  all 
that  was  in  Deacon  Badger's  best  room,  and  how  many 
silver  tablespoons  and  teaspoons  graced  the  beaufet  in  the 
corner,  and  when  each  of  his  daughters  was  born,  and 
just  how  Miss  Susy  came  to  marry  as  she  did,  and  who 
wanted  to  marry  her  and  couldn't.  He  knew  just  the 
cost  of  Major  Broad's  scarlet  cloak  and  shoe-buckles,  and 
how  Mrs.  Major  had  a  real  Ingy  shawl  up  in  her  "  cam- 
phire"  trunk,  that  cost  nigh  as  much  as  Lady  Lothrop's 


82  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [STOWE 

Nobody  had  made  love,  or  married,  or  had  children  born, 
or  been  buried,  since  Sam  was  able  to  perambulate  the 
country,  without  his  informing  himself  minutely  of  every 
available  particular;  and  his  unfathomable  knowledge  on 
these  subjects  was  an  unfailing  source  of  popularity. 

Besides  this,  Sam  was  endowed  with  no  end  of  idle  ac 
complishments.  His  indolence  was  precisely  of  a  turn 
that  enjoyed  the  excitement  of  an  occasional  odd  bit  of 
work  with  which  he  had  clearly  no  concern,  and  which 
had  no  sort  of  tendency  toward  his  own  support  or  that 
of  his  family.  Something  so  far  out  of  the  line  of  practi 
cal  utility  as  to  be  in  a  manner  an  artistic  labor  would 
awaken  all  the  energies  of  his  soul.  His  shop  was  a  per 
fect  infirmary  for  decayed  articles  of  virtu  from  all  the 
houses  for  miles  around.  Cracked  china,  lame  teapots, 
broken  shoe-buckles,  rickety  tongs,  and  decrepit  fire-irons, 
all  stood  in  melancholy  proximity,  awaiting  Sam's  happy 
hours  of  inspiration ;  and  he  was  always  happy  to  sit  down 
and  have  a  long,  strictly  confidential  conversation  concern 
ing  any  of  these  with  the  owner,  especially  if  Hepsy  were 
gone  out  washing,  or  on  any  other  work  which  kept  her 
at  a  safe  distance. 

Sam  could  shave  and  cut  hair  as  neatly  as  any  barber, 
and  was  always  in  demand  up  and  down  the  country 
to  render  these  offices  to  the  sick.  He  was  ready  to  go 
for  miles  to  watch  with  invalids,  and  a  very  acceptable 
watcher  he  made,  beguiling  the  night  hours  with  endless 
stories  and  legends.  He  was  also  an  expert  in  psalmody, 
having  in  his  youth  been  the  pride  of  the  village  singing- 
school.  In  those  days  he  could  perform  reputably  on  the 
bass-viol  in  the  choir  of  a  Sunday  with  a  doleful  ness  and 
solemnity  of  demeanor  in  the  highest  degree  edifying, — 
though  he  was  equally  ready  of  a  week-evening  in  scrap 
ing  on  a  brisk  little  fiddle,  if  any  of  the  thoughtless  ones 


STOWK]  SAM  LAWSON,  THE  VILLAGE  DO-NOTHING.       83 

Canted  a  performer  at  a  husking-  or  a  quilting  frolic. 
Sam's  obligingness  was  many-sided,  and  he  was  equally 
prepared  at  any  moment  to  raise  a  funeral  psalm  or  whis 
tle  the  time  of  a  double-shuffle. 

But  the  more  particular  delight  of  Sam's  heart  was  in 
funerals.  He  would  walk  miles  on  hearing  the  news  of 
a  dangerous  illness,  and  sit  roosting  on  the  fence  of  the 
premises,  delighted  to  gossip  over  the  particulars,  but 
ready  to  come  down  at  any  moment  to  do  any  of  the  odd 
turns  which  sickness  in  a  family  makes  necessary;  and 
when  the  last  earthly  scene  was  over,  Sam  was  more  than 
ready  to  render  those  final  offices  from  which  the  more 
nervous  and  fastidious  shrink,  but  in  which  he  took  almost, 
a  professional  pride. 

The  business  of  an  undertaker  is  a  refinement  of  modern 
civilization.  In  simple  old  days  neighbors  fell  into  one 
another's  hands  for  all  the  last  wants  of  our  poor  mortal 
ity  ;  and  there  were  men  and  women  of  note  who  took  a 
particular  and  solemn  pride  in  these  mournful  offices. 
Sam  had  in  fact  been  up  all  night  in  our  house,  and,  hav 
ing  set  me  up  in  the  clover,  and  comforted  me  with  a  jack- 
knife,  he  proceeded  to  inform  me  of  the  particulars. 

"  Why,  ye  see,  Horace,  I  ben  up  with  'em  pretty  mucn 
all  night ;  and  I  laid  yer  father  out  myself,  and  I  never 
see  a  better-lookin'  corpse.  It's  a  'mazin'  pity  your  daddy 
hed  such  feelin's  'bout  havin'  people  come  to  look  at  him, 
'cause  he  does  look  beautiful,  and  it's  ben  a  long  time 
since  we've  hed  a  funeral,  anyway,  and  everybody  was 
expectin'  to  come  to  his'n,  and  they'll  all  be  dissap'inted 
if  the  corpse  ain't  show'd ;  but  then,  lordy  massy,  folks 
oughtn't  to  think  hard  on't  ef  folks  hes  their  own  way 
'bout  their  own  funeral.  That  'ere's  what  I've  ben  a- 
tellin'  on  'em  all,  over  to  the  tavern  and  round  to  the  store. 
Why,  you  never  see  sich  a  talk  as  there  was  about  it 


84  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [STOWK 

There  was  Aunt  Sally  Morse,  and  Betsey  and  Patsy  Sawin, 
and  Mis'  Zeruiah  Bacon,  come  over  early  to  look  at  the 
corpse,  and  when  they  wasn't  let  in,  you  never  heerd  sich 
a  jawin'.  Betsey  and  Patsy  Sawin  said  that  they  allers 
suspected  your  father  was  an  infidel,  or  some  sich,  and 
now  they  was  clear;  and  Aunt  Sally  she  asked  who  made 
his  shroud,  and  when  she  heerd  there  wasn't  to  be  none, 
he  was  laid  out  in  his  clothes,  she  said  she  never  heerd 
euch  unchristian  doin's. — that  she  always  had  heerd  he 
had  strange  opinions,  but  she  never  thought  it  would  come 
to  that." 

"  My  father  isn't  an  infidel ;  and  I  wish  I  could  kill  'em 
for  talking  so,"  said  I,  clinching  my  jack-knife  in  my 
small  fist,  and  feeling  myself  shake  with  passion. 

"  Wai,  wal,  I  kind  o'  spoke  up  to  'em  about  it.  I  wasn't 
a-goin'  to  hear  no  sich  jaw ;  and  says  I,  '  I  think  ef  there 
is  anybody  that  knows  what's  what  about  funerals  I'm 
the  man,  fur  I  don't  s'pose  there's  a  man  in  the  county 
that's  laid  out  more  folks,  and  set  up  with  more  corpses, 
and  ben  sent  for  fur  and  near,  than  I  have,  and  my  opin 
ion  is  that  mourners  must  always  follow  the  last  directions 
gi'n  to  'em  by  the  person.  Ef  a  man  hesn't  a  right  to 
have  the  say  about  his  own  body,  what  hes  he  a  right  to  ?' 
Wal,  they  said  that  it  was  putty  well  of  me  to  talk  so, 
when  I  had  the  privilege  of  settin'  up  with  him,  and  seein' 
all  that  was  to  be  seen.  '  Lordy  massy,'  says  I, '  I  don't  see 
why  ye  need  envi  me ;  'tain't  my  fault  that  folks  thinks 
it's  agreeable  to  have  me  round.  As  to  bein'  buried  in 
his  clothes,  why,  lordy  massy,  'tain't  nothin'  so  extraor 
dinary.  In  the  old  country  great  folks  is  very  often  laid 
out  in  their  clothes.  'Member,  when  I  was  a  boy,  old  Mr. 
Sanger,  the  minister  in  Deerbrook,  was  laid  out  in  his 
gown  and  bands,  with  a  Bible  in  his  hands,  and  he  looked 
as  nateral  as  a  pictur'.  I  was  at  Parson  Eider's  funeral, 


STOWE]  SAM  LA  WSON,  THE  VILLAGE  DO-NOTHING.       85 

down  to  Wrentham.  He  was  laid  out  in  white  flannel. 
But  then  there  was  old  Captain  Bigelow,  down  to  the  Pint 
there,  he  was  laid  out  regular  in  his  rigimentals,  jest  as 
he  wore  'em  in  the  war,  epaulets  and  all.'  Wai,  now, 
Horace,  your  daddy  looks  jest  as  peaceful  as  a  psalm-tune. 
Now,  you  don't  know, — jest  as  nateral  as  if  he'd  only  jest 
gone  to  sleep.  So  ye  may  set  your  heart  at  rest  'bout 
him." 

It  was  one  of  those  beautiful  serene  days  of  October, 
when  the  earth  lies  as  bright  and  still  as  anything  one 
can  dream  of  in  the  New  Jerusalem,  and  Sam's  homely 
expressions  of  sympathy  had  quieted  me  somewhat.  Sam, 
tired  of  his  discourse,  lay  back  in  the  clover,  with  his 
hands  under  his  head,  and  went  on  with  his  moralizing : 

"  Lordy  massy,  Horace,  to  think  on't, — it's  so  kind  o' 
solemnizin' !  It's  one's  turn  to-day,  and  another's  to-mor 
row.  We  never  know  when  our  turn'll  come."  And  Sam 
raised  a  favorite  stave, — 

"  And  must  these  active  limbs  of  mine 
Lie  mouldering  in  the  clay  ?" 

"  Active  limbs !  I  guess  so !"  said  a  sharp  voice,  whicn 
came  through  the  clover-heads  like  the  crack  of  a  rifle. 
"  Well,  I've  found  you  at  last.  Here  you  be,  Sam  Lawson, 
lyin'  flat  on  your  back  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  not  a  potato  dug,  and  not  a  stick  of  wood  cut  to  get 
dinner  with ;  and  I  won't  cut  no  more,  if  we  never  have 
dinner.  It's  no  use  a-humorin'  you, — doin'  your  work  for 
you.  The  more  I  do,  the  more  I  may  do  :  so  come  home, 
won't  you  ?" 

"  Lordy  massy,  Hepsy,"  said  Sam,  slowly  erecting  him 
self  out  of  the  grass,  and  staring  at  her  with  white  eyes, 
"  you  don't  ought  to  talk  so.  I  ain't  to  blame.  I  hed  to 
ii  8 


86  **<ST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

sit  up  with  Mr.  Holyoke  all  night,  and  help  'em  lay  him 
out  at  four  o'clock  this  mornin'." 

"  You're  always  everywhere  but  where  you've  business 
to  be,"  said  HepsjT,  "  and  helpin'  and  doin'  for  everybody 
but  your  own.  For  my  part,  I  think  charity  ought  to 
begin  at  home.  You're  everywhere,  up  and  down  and 
round, — over  to  Shelbun,  down  to  Podunk,  up  to  North 
Parish ;  and  here  Abram  and  Kiah  Stebbins  have  been 
waitin'  all  the  morning  with  a  horse  they  brought  all  the 
way  from  Boston  to  get  you  to  shoe." 

"  Wai,  now,  that  'ere  shows  they  know  what's  what.  I 
told  Kiah  that  ef  they'd  bring  that  'ere  horse  to  me  I'd 
tend  to  his  huffs." 

"  An  be  off  lying  in  the  mowing,  like  a  patridge,  when 
they  come  after  ye.  That's  one  way  to  do  business,"  said 
Hepsy. 

"Hepsy,  I  was  just  a  miditatin'.  Ef  we  don't  miditate 
sometimes  on  all  these  'ere  things,  it'll  be  wus  for  us  by 
and  by." 

"  Meditate !  I'll  help  your  meditations  in  a  way  you 
won't  like,  if  you  don't  look  out.  So  now  you  come  home, 
and  stop  your  meditatin',  and  go  to  doin'  somethin'.  I 
told  'em  to  come  back  this  afternoon,  and  I'd  have  you  on 
the  spot  if  'twas  a  possible  thing,"  said  the  very  practical 
Hepsy,  laying  firm  hold  of  Sam's  unresisting  arm  and 
leading  him  away  captive. 


LOWELL]  THE  COURTIN1.  87 

THE  COURTIN', 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

[The  humorous  pastoral  was  never  more  neatly  conceived  and 
amusingly  executed  than  in  Lowell's  "  Courtin',"  one  of  those  in 
imitable  bits  of  poetry  which  appear  but  once  in  a  generation  am' 
form  in  themselves  a  fame  for  their  authors.] 

GOD  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 

Fur'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 

An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder, 
An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 

'ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 

With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in, — 
There  warn't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 

To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 

Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her, 
An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 

The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  old  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted. 


88  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [LowELT 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 
Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin', 

An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  ag'in 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'Twas  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur ; 
A  dog-rose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o*  man,  A  1, 

Clear  grit  an'  human  natur' ; 
None  couldn't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 

Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter. 

He'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
Hed  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em, 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells, — 
All  is,  he  couldn't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 

All  crinkly  like  curled  maple ; 
The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 

Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir ; 
My !  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring, 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 

When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 
Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 

O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 


LOWELL]  THE  COURTING 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some  I 
She  seemed  to've  got  a  new  soul, 

For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he'd  come, 
Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper ; 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelin's  flew, 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  1'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle ; 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder, 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder, 

"  fou  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose  ?" 
"  "Wai.  ...  no  ....  I  come  designin' — " 

"  To  see  my  Ma  ?    She's  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Ag'in'  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so, 
Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin' ; 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 
Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 
Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'other, 

An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 
He  couldn't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 
:i.  8* 


90  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Says  he,  "  I'd  better  call  ag'in ;" 
Says  she,  "Think  likely,  Mister;" 

Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 
An'  ....     Wai,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

"When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes, 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snow-hid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 
Too  tight  for  all  expressing 

Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 
An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 
Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 

An'  all  I  know  is,  they  was  cried 
In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 


PRIMITIVE  FORMS  OF  THE  ORDEAL. 

HENRY  C.  LEA. 

[Mr.  Lea  comes  from  a  family  of  high  intelligence  and  literary 
standing.  He  is  the  grandson  of  Mathew  Carey,  one  of  our  earliest 
writers  on  Political  Economy,  and  a  son  of  Isaac  Lea,  of  high  note  as 
an  American  naturalist.  Mr.  Lea  was  born  in  Philadelphia  in  1825. 


LEA]          PRIMITIVE  FORMS  OF  THE  ORDEAL.  91 

As  a  publisher  he  succeeded  to  the  business  of  the  celebrated  publish 
ing-house  of  Mathew  Carey  &  Sons,  established  in  the  last  century.  As 
an  author  he  has  devoted  himself  to  certain  phases  of  history  hereto 
fore  but  imperfectly  treated.  His  "Superstition  and  Force,"  "  His 
torical  Sketch  of  Sacerdotal  Celibacy  in  the  Christian  Church,"  and 
"  Studies  in  Church  History"  are  works  of  great  learning  and  value. 
From  the  first-named  we  ofler  an  illustrative  extract.] 

TURNING  to  the  still  savage  races  of  the  Old  "World,  we 
everywhere  find  these  superstitions  in  full  force.  Africa 
furnishes  an  ample  store  of  them,  varying  from  the  cru 
dest  simplicity  to  the  most  deadly  devices.  Among  the 
Kalabarese,  for  instance,  the  afia-edet-ibom  is  administered 
with  the  curved  fang  of  a  snake,  which  is  dexterously 
inserted  under  the  lid  and  around  the  ball  of  the  eye  of 
the  accused ;  if  innocent,  he  is  expected  to  eject  it  by 
rolling  the  eye,  while,  if  unable  to  do  so,  it  is  removed 
with  a  leopard's  tooth,  and  he  is  condemned.  Even  ruder, 
and  more  under  the  control  of  the  operator,  is  the  afla- 
ibnot-idiok,  in  which  a  white  and  a  black  line  are  drawn  on 
the  skull  of  a  chimpanzee :  this  is  held  up  before  the  de 
fendant,  when  an  apparent  attraction  of  the  white  line 
towards  him  demonstrates  his  innocence,  or  an  inclination 
of  the  black  line  in  his  direction  pronounces  his  guilt. 
More  formidable  than  these  is  the  ordeal-nut,  containing 
a  deadly  poison  which  causes  frothing  at  the  mouth,  con 
vulsions,  paralysis,  and  speedy  death.  In  capital  cases,  or 
even  when  sickness  is  attributed  to  hostile  machinations, 
the  abiadiong,  or  sorcerer,  decides  who  shall  undergo  the 
trial ;  and,  as  the  active  principle  of  the  nut  can  be  ex 
tracted  by  preliminary  boiling,  judicious  liberality  on  the 
part  of  the  individual  selected  is  supposed  to  render  the 
ordeal  comparatively  harmless. 

Throughout  a  wide  region  of  Western  Africa,  one  of  the 
most  popular  forms  of  ordeal  is  that  of  the  red  water,  or 


92  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [LEA 

<l  sassy-bark."  In  the  neighborhood  of  Sierra  Leone,  as 
described  by  Dr.  Winterbottom,  it  is  administered  by  re 
quiring  the  accused  to  fast  for  twelve  hours  and  then  to 
swallow  a  small  quantity  of  rice.  After  this  the  infusion 
of  the  bark  is  taken  in  large  quantities,  as  much  as  a  gal 
lon  being  sometimes  employed :  if  it  produces  emesia,  so 
as  to  eject  all  of  the  rice,  the  proof  of  innocence  is  com 
plete,  but  if  it  fails  in  this,  or  if  it  acts  as  a  purgative,  the 
accused  is  pronounced  guilty.  It  has  narcotic  properties, 
also,  a  manifestation  of  which  is  likewise  decisive  against 
the  sufferer.  Among  some  of  the  tribes  this  is  determined 
by  placing  on  the  ground  small  sticks  about  eighteen 
inches  apart,  or  by  forming  an  archway  of  limbs  of  trees 
bent  to  the  ground,  and  requiring  the  patient  to  pick  his 
way  among  them,  a  feat  rendered  difficult  by  the  vertigi 
nous  effects  of  the  poison.  Although  death  not  infre 
quently  results  from  the  ordeal  itself,  yet  the  faith  reposed 
in  these  trials  is  so  absolute  that,  according  to  Dr.  Living 
stone,  they  are  demanded  with  eagerness  by  those  accused 
of  witchcraft,  confident  in  their  own  innocence,  and  be 
lieving  that  the  guilty  alone  can  suffer.  When  the  red 
water  is  administered  for  its  emetic  effects,  the  popular 
explanation  is  that  the  fetish  enters  with  the  draught, 
examines  the  heart  of  the  accused,  and,  on  finding  him 
innocent,  returns  with  the  rice  as  evidence.  A  system 
directly  the  reverse  of  all  this  is  found  in  Ashantee,  where 
sickness  in  the  ordeal  is  a  sign  of  innocence,  and  the  lex 
talionis  is  strictly  observed.  When  evidence  is  insufficient 
to  support  a  charge,  the  accuser  is  made  to  take  an  oath 
as  to  the  truth  of  his  accusation,  and  the  defendant  is  then 
required  to  chew  a  piece  of  odum  wood  and  drink  a  pitcher 
of  water.  If  no  ill  effects  ensue,  he  is  deemed  guilty,  and 
is  put  to  death  ;  while  if  he  becomes  sick,  he  is  acquitted, 
and  the  accuser  suffers  in  his  stead. 


LEA]          PRIMITIVE  FORMS  OF  THE  ORDEAL.  93 

Further  to  the  east  in  the  African  continent,  the  Niam- 
Niam  and  the  neighboring  tribes  illustrate  the  endless 
variety  of  form  of  which  the  ordeal  is  susceptible.  These 
savages  resort  to  various  kinds  of  divination,  which  are 
equally  employed  as  a  guidance  for  the  future  in  all  im 
portant  undertakings  and  as  means  to  discover  the  guilt 
or  the  innocence  of  those  accused  of  crime.  The  principal 
of  these  is  the  borru,  in  which  two  polished  pieces  of 
damma  wood  are  rubbed  together,  after  being  moistened 
with  a  few  drops  of  water.  If  they  glide  easily  on  each 
other,  the  sign  is  favorable ;  if  they  adhere  together,  it  is 
unfavorable.  Life  and  death  are  also  brought  in  play,  but 
vicarious  victims  are  made  the  subject  of  experiment. 
Thus,  a  cock  is  taken  and  its  head  is  repeatedly  immersed 
in  water  until  the  creature  is  rigid  and  insensible ;  if  it 
recovers,  the  indication  is  favorable,  if  it  dies,  adverse. 
Or  an  oil  extracted  from  the  bengye  wood  is  administered 
to  a  hen,  and  the  same  conclusions  are  drawn  from  its 
survival  or  death. 

In  Madagascar  the  poison  ordeal  is  less  humanely  ad 
ministered,  with  a  decoction  of  the  deadly  nut  of  the  Tan- 
gena  (Tanghinia  venenifera).  One  of  the  modes  of  its 
application  is  evidently  based  on  the  same  theory  as  the 
ordeal  of  red  water  and  rice,  to  which  it  bears  a  notable 
resemblance.  A  fowl  is  boiled,  and  three  pieces  of  its  skin 
are  placed  in  the  broth.  Then  a  cupful  of  the  decoction 
of  the  Tangena  nut  is  given  to  the  accused,  followed  by 
the  same  quantity  of  the  broth,  with  the  pieces  of  skin. 
Unless  the  poison  speedily  causes  vomiting,  it  soon  kills 
the  patient,  which  is  a  satisfactory  proof  of  his  guilt.  If 
vomiting  ensues,  it  is  kept  up  by  repeated  doses  of  the 
broth  and  warm  water,  and  if  the  bits  of  skin  are  ejected 
the  accused  is  declared  innocent ;  but  if  they  are  retained 
he  is  deemed  convicted  and  is  summarily  despatched  with 


94  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [LEA 

another  bowl  of  the  poison.  In  the  persecutions  of  1836 
and  1849  directed  against  the  Malagasy  Christians,  many 
of  the  converts  were  tried  with  the  Tangena  nut,  and 
numbers  of  them  perished. 

Springing  from  the  same  belief  is  the  process  used  in 
Tahiti  for  discovering  the  criminal  in  cases  of  theft.  The 
priest,  when  applied  to,  digs  a  hole  in  the  clay  floor  of  his 
hut,  fills  it  with  water,  and  stands  over  it  with  a  young 
plantain  in  his  hand,  while  invoking  his  god.  The  deity 
thereupon  conducts  the  spirit  of  the  thief  over  the  water, 
and  his  reflection  is  recognized  by  the  priest. 

The  races  of  the  Indian  Archipelago  are  fully  equipped 
with  resources  of  the  same  kind  for  settling  doubtful  cases. 

o 

Among  the  Dyaks  of  Borneo  questions  for  which  no  other 
solution  is  apparent  are  settled  by  giving  to  each  litigant 
a  lump  of  salt,  which  they  drop  simultaneously  into  water, 
and  he  whose  lump  dissolves  soonest  is  adjudged  the  loser; 
or  each  takes  a  living  shell  and  places  it  on  a  plate,  when 
lime-juice  is  squeezed  over  them,  and  the  one  whose  shell 
first  moves  under  his  gentle  stimulant  is  declared  the 
winner. 

The  black  Australioid  Khonds  of  the  hill-districts  of 
Orissa  confirm  the  universality  of  these  practices  by 
customs  peculiar  to  themselves  which  may  be  assumed  as 
handed  down  by  tradition  from  prehistoric  times.  Not 
only  do  they  constantly  employ  the  ordeals  of  boiling 
water  and  oil  and  red-hot  iron,  which  they  may  have  bor 
rowed  from  their  Hindu  neighbors,  but  they  administer 
judicial  oaths  with  imprecations  that  are  decidedly  of  the- 
character  of  ordeals.  Thus,  an  oath  is  taken  on  a  tiger's 
skin,  with  an  invocation  of  destruction  from  that  animal 
upon  the  perjured ;  or  upon  a  lizard's  skin,  whose  scalinesa 
is  invited  upon  him  who  may  forswear  himself;  or  over 
an  ant-hill,  with  an  imprecation  that  he  who  swears  falsely 


LEA]          PRIMITIVE  FORMS  OF  THE  ORDEAL.  95 

may  be  reduced  to  powder.  A  more  characteristic  ordeal 
is  that  used  in  litigation  concerning  land,  when  a  portion 
of  earth  from  the  disputed  possession  is  swallowed  by 
each  claimant,  in  the  belief  that  it  will  destroy  him  whose 
pretensions  are  false.  On  very  solemn  occasions,  a  sheep 
is  killed  in  the  name  of  Tari  Pennu,  the  dreadful  earth- 
goddess  ;  rice  is  then  moistened  with  its  blood,  and  this  is 
administered,  in  the  full  conviction  that  she  will  slay  the 
rash  litigant  who  insults  her  power  by  perjury. 

The  hill-tribes  of  Eajmahal,  who  represent  another  of 
the  pre-Aryan  Indian  races,  furnish  us  with  further  de 
velopments  of  the  same  principle,  in  details  bearing  a 
marked  analogy  to  those  practised  by  the  most  diverse 
families  of  mankind.  Thus,  the  process  by  which  the 
guilt  of  Achan  was  discovered  (Joshua  vii.  16-18),  and 
that  by  which,  as  we  shall  see  hereafter,  Master  Anselm 
proposed  to  identify  the  thief  of  the  sacred  vessels  of  Laon, 
are  not  unlike  the  ceremony  used  when  a  district  is  rav 
aged  by  tigers  or  by  pestilence,  which  is  regarded  as  a 
retribution  for  sin  committed  by  some  inhabitant,  whose 
identification  thus  becomes  all-important  for  the  salvation 
of  the  rest.  In  the  process  known  as  Satane  a  person  sits 
on  the  ground  with  a  branch  of  the  bale-tree  planted  op 
posite  to  him ;  rice  is  handed  to  him  to  eat  in  the  name 
of  the  village  of  the  district,  and  when  the  one  is  named 
in  which  the  culprit  lives,  he  is  expected  to  throw  up  the 
rice.  Having  thus  determined  the  village,  the  same  plan 
is  adopted  with  respect  to  each  family  in  it,  and  when  tho 
family  is  identified,  the  individual  is  discovered  in  the 
same  manner.  Another  form,  named  Cherreen,  is  not  un 
like  the  ordeal  of  the  Bible  and  key,  not  as  yet  obsolete 
among  Christians.  A  stone  is  suspended  by  a  string,  and 
the  names  of  the  villages,  families,  and  individuals  are 
repeated,  when  it  indicates  the  guilty  by  its  vibrations. 


96  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [LEA 

Thieves  are  also  discovered  and  convicted  by  these  pro 
cesses,  and  by  another  mode  known  as  Gobereen,  which  is 
a  modification  of  the  hot- water  ordeal.  A  mixture  of  cow- 
dung,  oil,  and  water  is  made  to  boil  briskly  in  a  pot.  A 
ring  is  thrown  in,  and  each  suspected  person,  after  in 
voking  the  Supreme  Deity,  is  required  to  find  and  bring 
out  the  ring  with  his  hand, — the  belief  being  that  the  in 
nocent  will  not  be  burned,  while  the  guilty  will  not  be 
able  to  put  his  hand  into  the  pot,  as  the  mixture  will  rise 
up  to  meet  it. 

Reverting  to  the  older  races,  we  find  no  trace  of  formal 
ordeals  in  the  fragmentary  remains  out  of  which  Egyp 
tologists  thus  far  have  succeeded  in  reconstructing  the 
antique  civilization  of  the  Nile  valley ;  but  the  intimate 
dependence  of  man  on  the  gods,  and  the  daily  interposi 
tion  of  the  latter  in  human  affairs,  taught  by  the  prophets 
of  the  temples  and  reverently  accepted  by  the  people, 
render  it  almost  certain  that  in  some  shape  or  other  the 
divine  judgment  was  frequently  consulted  in  judicial  pro 
ceedings  where  human  wisdom  was  at  fault.  This  prob 
ably  took  the  form  of  reference  to  the  oracles  which 
abounded  in  every  Egyptian  nome.  Indeed,  a  story  re 
lated  by  Herodotus  would  seem  to  show  that  such  an 
interpellation  of  the  divine  power  was  habitual  in  prose 
cutions  when  evidence  of  guilt  was  deficient.  Aames  II., 
before  he  gained  the  crown,  was  noted  for  his  reckless  and 
dissolute  life,  and  was  frequently  accused  of  theft  and 
carried  to  the  nearest  oracle,  when  he  was  convicted  or 
acquitted  according  to  the  response.  On  ascending  the 
throne,  he  paid  great  respect  to  the  shrines  where  he  had 
been  condemned,  and  neglected  altogether  those  where  he 
had  been  absolved,  saying  that  the  former  gave  true  and 
the  latter  lying  responses. 

The  Semitic  races,  while  not  giving  to  the  ordeal  the 


LEA]          PRIMITIVE  FORMS  OF  THE  ORDEAL.  97 

development  which  it  has  received  among  the  Aryans, 
still  afford  sufficient  manifestation  of  its  existence  among 
them.  Chaldean  and  Assyrian  institutions  have  not  as 
yet  been  sufficiently  explored  for  us  to  state  with  positive- 
ness  whether  or  not  the  judgment  of  God  was  a  recognized 
resource  of  the  puzzled  dispenser  of  justice ;  but  the  prob 
abilities  are  strongly  in  favor  of  some  processes  of  the  kind 
being  discovered  when  we  are  more  fully  acquainted  with 
their  judicial  system.  The  constant  invocation  of  the 
gods,  which  forms  so  marked  a  feature  of  the  cuneiform 
inscriptions,  indicates  a  belief  in  the  divine  guidance  of 
human  affairs  which  could  hardly  fail  to  find  expression 
in  direct  appeals  for  light  in  the  administration  of  justice. 
The  nearest  approach,  however,  to  the  principle  of  the 
ordeal  which  has  thus  far  been  deciphered  is  found  in  the 
imprecations  commonly  expressed  in  contracts,  donations, 
and  deeds,  by  which  the  gods  are  invoked  to  shed  all  the 
curses  that  can  assail  humanity  on  the  heads  of  those  who 
shall  evade  the  execution  of  their  plighted  faith,  or  seek 
to  present  false  claims.  Akin  to  this,  moreover,  was  the 
penalty  frequently  expressed  in  contracts,  whereby  their 
violation  was  to  be  punished  by  heavy  fines,  the  greater 
part  of  which  was  payable  into  the  treasury  of  some 
temple. 

Among  the  Hebrews,  as  a  rule,  the  interposition  of 
Yahveh  was  expected  directly,  without  the  formulas 
which  human  ingenuity  has  invented  to  invite  and  ascer 
tain  the  decisions  of  the  divine  will.  Still,  the  combat  of 
David  and  Goliath  has  been  cited  as  a  model  and  justifica 
tion  of  the  judicial  duel ;  and  there  are  some  practices 
described  in  Scripture  which  are  strictly  ordeals,  and 
which  were  duly  put  forth  by  the  local  clergy  throughout 
Europe  when  struggling  to  defend  the  system  against  the 
prohibitions  of  the  Papacy.  When  the  man  who  blas- 
ii, — E  g  9 


98  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [LBA 

phemed  the  Lord  (Levit.  xxiv.  11-16)  was  kept  in  ward 
"  that  the  mind  of  the  Lord  might  be  showed  them,"  and 
the  Lord  ordered  Moses  to  have  him  stoned  by  the  whole 
congregation,  we  are  not  told  the  exact  means  adopted  to 
ascertain  the  will  of  Yahveh,  but  the  appeal  was  identical 
in  principle  with  that  which  prompted  the  mediaeval  judg 
ment  of  God.  The  use  of  the  lot,  moreover,  which  was 
so  constantly  employed  in  the  most  important  and  sacred 
matters,  was  not  a  mere  appeal  to  chance,  but  was  a  sacred 
ceremony  performed  "  before  the  Lord  at  the  door  of  the 
tabernacle  of  the  congregation"  to  learn  what  was  the 
decision  of  Yahveh.  The  lot  was  also  used,  if  not  as  a 
regular  judicial  expedient,  at  all  events  in  unusual  cases 
as  a  mode  of  discovering  criminals,  and  its  results  were 
held  to  be  the  undoubted  revelation  of  Omniscience.  It 
is  more  than  probable  that  the  Urim  and  Thummim  were 
lots,  and  that  they  were  not  infrequently  used,  as  in  the 
cases  of  Achan  and  Jonathan.  And  the  popular  belief  in 
the  efficacy  of  the  lot  is  manifested  in  Jonah's  adventure 
(Jonah  i.  7),  when  the  sailors  cast  lots  to  discover  the  sin 
ner  whose  presence  brought  the  tempest  upon  them.  The 
most  formal  and  absolute  example  of  the  ordeal,  however, 
was  the  Bitter  "Water  by  which  conjugal  infidelity  was 
convicted  and  punished  (Numb.  v.  11-31).  This  curious 
and  elaborate  ceremony,  which  bears  so  marked  an  anal 
ogy  to  the  poison  ordeals,  was  abandoned  by  order  of  R. 
Johanan  ben  Saccai  about  the  time  of  the  Christian  era, 
and  is  too  well  known  to  require  more  than  a  passing  al 
lusion  to  the  wealth  of  Haggadistic  legend  and  the  inter 
minable  controversies  and  speculations  to  which  it  has 
given  rise.  I  may  add,  however,  that  Aben  Ezra  and 
other  Jewish  commentators  hold  that  when  Moses  burnt 
the  golden  calf  and  made  the  Israelites  drink  the  water 
in  which  its  ashes  were  cast  (Exod.  xxxii.  20),  he  admin- 


GRISWOLD]  PROGRESS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE.        99 

istered  an  ordeal,  like  that  of  the  Bitter  Water,  which  in 
some  way  revealed  those  who  had  been  guilty  of  idolatry, 
so  that  the  Levites  could  slay  them ;  and  Selden  explains 
this  by  reference  to  a  tradition  according  to  which  the 
gold  of  the  calf  reddened  the  beards  of  those  who  had 
worshipped  it,  and  thus  rendered  them  conspicuous. 


THE    PROGRESS    AND    PROSPECTS    OF   LITERATURE    IN 
AMERICA. 

R.  W.  GRISWOLD. 

[Kufus  "Wilmot  Griswold  is  best  known  as  the  editor  of  several  valu 
able  compilations  of  American  literature,  entitled  "  The  Prose  Writers 
of  America,"  "  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,"  and  "  The  Female 
Poets  of  America."  In  these  works  ho  shows  excellent  judgment  and 
discrimination  in  his  biographical  and  critical  notices  of  the  authors 
treated,  and  displays  an  attractive  literary  style  of  his  own.  From  his 
introduction  to  "  The  Prose  Writers  of  America,"  in  which  the  con 
ditions  and  prospects  of  American  literature  are  treated  at  considerable 
length,  we  select  a  statement  of  his  general  views  on  the  subject.  He 
was  born  in  Benson,  Kutland  County,  Vermont,  in  1815,  and  died  in 
New  York  City  in  1857.] 

I  NEED  not  dwell  upon  the  necessity  of  Literature  and 
Art  to  a  people's  glory  and  happiness.  History  with  all 
her  voices  joins  in  one  judgment  upon  this  subject.  Our 
legislators,  indeed,  choose  to  consider  them  of  no  conse 
quence,  and  while  the  States  are  convulsed  by  claims  from 
the  loom  and  the  furnace  for  protection,  the  demands  of  the 
parents  of  freedom,  the  preservers  of  arts,  the  dispensers 
of  civility,  are  treated  with  silence.  But  authors  and 
artists  have  existed  and  do  exist  here  in  spite  of  such 


100  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [GRISWOL& 

outlawry  ;  and,  notwithstanding  the  obstacles  in  our  con 
dition,  and  the  discouragements  of  neglect,  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race  in  the  United  States  have  done  as  much  in  the 
fields  of  Investigation,  Reflection,  Imagination,  and  Taste, 
in  the  present  century,  as  any  other  twelve  millions  of 
people — about  our  average  number  for  this  period — in  the 
world. 

Doubtless  there  are  obstacles,  great  obstacles,  to  the 
successful  cultivation  of  letters  here ;  but  they  are  not  so 
many  nor  so  important  as  is  generally  supposed.  The 
chief  difficulty  is  a  want  of  patriotism,  mainly  proceeding 
from  and  perpetuated  by  the  absence  of  a  just  law  of 
copyright.  There  is  indeed  no  lack  of  that  spurious  love 
of  country  which  is  ever  ready  to  involve  us  in  aimless 
and  disgraceful  war ;  but  there  is  little  genuine  and  lofty 
national  feeling;  little  clear  perception  of  that  which 
really  deserves  affection  and  applause ;  little  intelligent 
and  earnest  effort  to  foster  the  good  we  possess  or  acquire 
the  good  we  need. 

It  has  been  the  fate  of  colonists  in  all  ages  to  consider 
the  people  from  among  whom  they  made  their  exodus 
both  morally  and  intellectually  superior  to  themselves, 
and  the  parent  state  has  had  thus  a  kind  of  spiritual 
added  to  her  political  sovereignty.  The  American  prov 
inces  quarrelled  with  England,  conquered,  and  became  a 
separate  nation ;  and  we  have  since  had  our  own  Presi 
dents  and  Congresses ;  but  England  has  continued  to  do 
the  thinking  of  a  large  class  here, — of  men  who  have 
arrogated  to  themselves  the  title  of  critics, — of  our  sham 
sort  of  men,  in  all  departments.  We  have  had  no  confi 
dence  in  ourselves ;  and  men  who  lack  self-reliance  are 
rarely  successful.  We  have  not  looked  into  our  own  hearts. 
We  have  not  inquired  of  our  own  necessities.  When  we 
have  written,  instead  of  giving  a  free  voice  to  the  spirit 


GRISWOLD]  PROGRESS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE.     101 

within  us,  we  have  endeavored  to  write  after  some  foreign 
model.  We  have  been  so  fearful  of  nothing  else  as  of 
an  Americanism,  in  thought  or  expression.  He  has  been 
deemed  greatest  who  has  copied  some  transatlantic  author 
with  most  successful  servility.  The  noisiest  demagogue 
who  affects  to  despise  England  will  scarcely  open  a  book 
which  was  not  written  there.  And  if  one  of  our  country 
men  wins  some  reputation  among  his  fellows,  it  is  gener 
ally  because  he  has  been  first  praised  abroad. 

The  commonly  urged  barriers  to  literary  advancement 
supposed  to  exist  in  our  form  of  government,  the  nature 
of  our  institutions,  the  restless  and  turbulent  movements 
of  our  democracy,  and  the  want  of  a  wealthy  and  privi 
leged  class  among  us,  deserve  little  consideration.  Tumult 
and  strife,  the  clashing  of  great  interests  and  high  excite 
ments,  are  to  be  regarded  rather  as  aids  than  as  obstacles 
to  intellectual  progress.  Prom  Athens  came  the  choicest 
literature  and  the  finest  art.  Her  philosophers,  so  calm 
and  profound,  her  poets,  the  dulcet  sounds  of  whose  lyres 
still  charm  the  ears  of  succeeding  ages,  wrote  amid  con 
tinual  upturnings  and  overthrows.  The  best  authors  of 
Eome  also  were  senators  and  soldiers.  Milton,  the  great 
est  of  the  prose  writers  as  well  as  the  greatest  of  the 
poets  of  England,  lived  in  the  Commonwealth,  and  par 
ticipated  in  all  its  political  and  religious  controversies. 
And  what  repose  had  blind  Mseonides,  or  Camoens,  or 
Dante,  or  Tasso?  In  the  literature  of  Germany  and 
France,  too,  the  noblest  works  have  been  produced  amid 
the  shocks  of  contending  elements. 

Nor  is  the  absence  of  a  wealthy  class,  with  leisure  for 
such  tranquil  pursuits,  to  be  much  lamented.  The  privi 
leged  classes  of  all  nations  have  been  drones.  We  have, 
in  the  Southern  States  of  this  republic,  a  large  class,  with 
ample  fortunes,  leisure,  and  quiet;  but  they  have  done 
n.  9* 


102  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.         [GRISWOLD 

comparatively  nothing  in  the  fields  of  intellectual  exer 
tion,  except  when  startled  into  spasmodic  activity  by  con 
flicts  of  interest  with  the  North. 

To  say  truth,  most  of  the  circumstances  usually  set 
down  as  barriers  to  eesthetical  cultivation  here  are  directly 
or  indirectly  advantageous.  The  real  obstacles  are  gener 
ally  of  a  transient  kind.  Many  of  them  are  silently  dis 
appearing;  and  the  rest  would  be  soon  unknown  if  we 
had  a  more  enlightened  love  of  country,  and  the  making 
of  our  laws  were  not  so  commonly  confided  to  a  sort  of 
men  whose  intellects  are  too  mean  or  whose  principles  are 
too  wicked  to  admit  of  their  seeing  or  doing  what  is  just 
and  needful  in  the  premises.  That  property  which  is  most 
actual,  the  only  property  to  which  a  man's  right  is  posi 
tive,  unquestionable,  indefeasible,  exclusive, — his  genius, 
conferred  as  by  letters  patent  from  the  Almighty, — is  held 
to  be  not  his,  but  the  public's,  and  therefore  is  not  brought 
into  use.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  much  has  been  accomplished ; 
great  advancement  has  been  made  against  the  wind  and 
tide ;  and  at  this  time  the  aspects  and  prospects  of  our 
affairs  are  auspicious  of  scarcely  anything  more  than 
of  the  successful  cultivation  of  National  Literature  and 
National  Art. 

I  use  the  word  National  because  whatever  we  do  well 
must  be  done  in  a  national  spirit.  The  tone  of  a  great 
work  is  given  or  received  by  the  people  among  whom  it 
is  produced,  and  so  is  national,  as  an  effect  or  as  a  cause. 
While  the  spirit  which  animates  the  best  literature  of  any 
country  must  be  peculiar  to  it,  its  subjects  may  be  chosen 
from  the  world.  It  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  Indian  chiefs 
or  republican  soldiers  must  be  the  characters  of  our  works 
of  imagination,  or  that  our  gloomy  forests,  or  sea-like 
prairies,  or  political  committee  rooms  must  be  their  scenes. 
Paradise  Lost  and  Utopia  are  as  much  portions  of  British 


GRISWOLD]  PROGRESS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE.     103 

Literature  as  Alfred,  or  London  Assurance.  It  may  be 
regarded  as  one  of  the  greatest  dangers  to  which  our  lit 
erature  is  exposed,  indeed,  that  so  many  are  mistaken  as 
to  what  should  distinguish  it.  Some  writers,  by  no  means 
destitute  of  abilities,  in  their  anxiety  to  be  national  have 
merely  ceased  to  be  natural.  Their  works  may  be  origi 
nal,  but  the  men  and  manners  they  have  drawn  have  no 
existence.  Least  of  all  do  they  exist  in  America.  The 
subjects  for  the  novelist  and  the  poet  in  our  own  country 
are  to  be  preferred  because  they  are  striking  from  their 
freshness,  and  because  the  physical  condition  of  a  country, 
having  a  powerful  influence  upon  the  character  of  its  in 
habitants,  naturally  furnishes  the  most  apposite  illustra 
tions  of  their  feelings  and  habits ;  but  a  "  national  work" 
may  as  well  be  written  about  the  builders  of  the  Pyramids 
as  about  the  mound-builders.  In  our  literature  we  must 
regard  all  men  as  equal  in  point  of  privilege,  the  church 
as  the  whole  company  of  God's  acceptable  worshippers, 
the  state  as  a  jomt  stock  in  which  every  one  holds  a  share. 
It  must  be  addressed  to  the  national  feelings,  vindicate 
the  national  principles,  support  the  national  honor,  be 
animated  by  an  expansive  sympathy  with  humanity.  It 
must  teach  that  the  interests  of  man  are  the  highest  con 
cern  of  men.  .  .  . 

There  is  an  absurd  notion  abroad  that  we  are  to  create 
an  entirely  new  literature.  Some  critics  in  England  ex 
pect  us,  who  write  the  same  language,  profess  the  same 
religion,  and  have  in  our  intellectual  firmament  the  same 
Bacon,  Sidney,  and  Locke,  the  same  Spenser,  Shakespeare, 
and  Milton,  to  differ  more  from  themselves  than  they 
differ  from  the  Greeks  and  the  Eomans,  or  from  any  of 
the  moderns.  This  would  be  harmless,  but  that  many 
persons  in  this  country,  whose  thinking  is  done  abroad,  are 
constantly  echoing  it,  and  wasting  their  little  productive 


104  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [GRISWOLD 

energy  in  efforts  to  comply  with  the  demand.  But  there 
never  was  and  never  can  be  an  exclusively  national  litera 
ture.  All  nations  are  indebted  to  each  other  and  to  pre 
ceding  ages  for  the  means  of  advancement ;  and  our  own, 
which  from  our  various  origin  may  be  said  to  be  at  the 
confluence  of  the  rivers  of  time  which  have  swept  through 
every  country,  can  with  less  justice  than  any  other  be 
looked  to  for  mere  novelties  in  art  and  fancy.  The  ques 
tion  between  us  and  other  nations  is  not  who  shall  most 
completely  discard  the  Past,  but  who  shall  make  best  use 
of  it.  The  Past  belongs  not  to  one  people,  but  to  those 
who  best  understand  it.  It  cannot  be  studied  too  deeply, 
for  unless  men  know  what  has  been  accomplished  they 
will  exhaust  themselves  in  unfolding  enigmas  that  have 
been  solved,  or  in  pursuing  ignes-fatui  that  have  already 
disappointed  a  thousand  expectations.  The  Eeformation 
had  an  extraordinary  influence  upon  the  literatures  of  the 
world,  and  some  such  influence  has  been  exerted  by  our 
Revolution  and  the  establishment  of  our  institutions.  The 
intellectual  energy  of  America  has  been  felt  far  more  in 
Europe  than  its  own,  for  the  period  of  our  national  ex 
istence,  has  been  felt  here;  and  with  all  the  enslaving 
deference  to  foreign  authority  and  all  the  imitation  of 
foreign  models  of  which  we  have  had  to  complain  in  our 
inferior  authors,  there  has  been  no  want  of  the  truest 
nationality  in  our  Franklin,  Webster,  Channing,  Cooper, 
Prescott,  Bancroft,  Bryant,  Whittier,  and  others,  in  almost 
every  department,  who  have  written  with  an  integrity  of 
understanding  and  feeling. 

It  has  been  objected  to  our  society  that  it  is  too  prac 
tical.  It  has  been  supposed  that  this  national  character 
istic  forbids  the  expectation  of  great  achievements  in  the 
highest  domains  of  art.  But  the  question  Cui  bono  f  should 
always  be  entertained.  Utility  is  in  everything  the  truest 


GRISWOLD]  PROGRESS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE.     105 

of  principles,  though  more  intelligence  and  liberality  than 
belong  to  a  low  state  of  civilization  are  necessary  to  its 
just  appreciation  and  application.  "Whatever  contributes 
to  the  growth  and  satisfaction  of  the  mind,  whatever  has 
in  it  any  absolute  beauty,  is  beginning  to  be  regarded  as 
not  less  useful  than  that  which  ministers  to  our  physical 
necessities.  All  works,  even  of  imagination,  must  have  in 
them  something  of  genuineness  and  earnestness.  Poets, 
and  novelists,  and  essayists,  when  they  write,  must  look 
not  only  into  their  minds,  but  into  their  hearts.  To  per 
sons  of  the  sensibility  and  refinement  which  are  insepa 
rable  from  high  cultivation,  all  truth  is  of  a  practical  value, 
and  in  the  most  aerial  creations  it  will  be  demanded  by  the 
first  order  of  critics. 

The  old  sources  of  intellectual  excitement  seem  to  be 
wellnigh  exhausted.  Love  will  still  be  sung,  but  in  no 
sweeter  strains  than  those  of  Petrarch  or  Tasso ;  Courage 
such  as  is  celebrated  by  the  old  poets  and  romancers  is 
happily  in  disrepute;  Eeligion,  as  it  has  commonly  ap 
peared  in  the  more  elegant  forms  of  literature,  has  not 
been  of  a  sort  that  ennobles  man  or  pleases  God ;  and 
Ambition,  for  the  most  part,  has  been  of  a  more  grovelling 
kind  than  may  be  looked  for  under  the  new  forms  of 
society.  Christian  virtue  is  no  longer  the  observance  of 
senseless  pagan  forms  that  have  been  baptized,  but  "  the 
love  of  truth,  for  its  own  beauty  and  sweetness  j"  and  the 
desire  of  man  is  not  so  much  to  win  titles  and  power,  as 
the  consciousness  or  the  reputation  of  doing  something 
that  shall  entitle  him  to  the  general  respect  and  gratitude. 
The  materials  among  us  for  the  externals  of  literature 
have  been  referred  to.  The  elements  of  its  vitality  and 
power,  which  are  most  clearly  apprehended  in  this  century, 
though  in  their  nature  universal,  for  many  reasons  are 
likely  to  be  most  active  with  us.  "Peace  on  earth,  and 


106  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [GRISWOLD 

good  will  to  man,"  is  here  to  be  the  principle  of  life  and 
progress,  in  Letters,  as  in  Religion  and  Politics. 

Considering  the  present  condition  of  society, — that  new 
inventions  are  constantly  releasing  immense  numbers  from 
a  portion  of  the  toil  required  for  the  satisfaction  of  physi 
cal  necessities,  and  giving  to  all  more  opportunity  for  in 
tellectual  pursuits  ;  that  steam  and  electricity  are  making 
of  the  world  a  common  neighborhood,  knitting  its  remotest 
parts  together  by  interchange  of  fabrics  and  thoughts ; 
that  the  press,  in  the  United  States  alone,  scatters  every 
hour  more  than  the  contents  of  the  Alexandrian  Library, 
and  is  increasing  in  refinement  and  energy  with  the  ex 
pansion  of  its  issues ;  and  that  associations  for  moral  and 
intellectual  improvement  were  never  more  numerous  or 
efficient, — we  cannot  doubt  that  the  Progress  of  Civiliza 
tion  in  the  coming  age  will  be  rapid  and  universal.  This 
country,  which  is  the  centre  of  the  new  order  of  things, 
is  destined  to  be  the  scene  of  the  greatest  conflicts  of 
opinion.  Much  as  has  been  done  here  in  literature  and 
art,  much  as  we  have  surpassed  all  reasonable  expectation 
in  the  works  of  our  philosophers,  orators,  historians,  and 
poets,  while  clearing  away  the  primeval  forests,  organizing 
society,  and  establishing  the  institutions  of  scientific  and 
literary  culture,  we  have  not  yet  that  distinct  image  of 
the  feelings  of  the  nation,  in  a  great  body  of  works  in  all 
the  departments  of  reflection,  imagination,  and  taste,  of 
which  the  auspicious  commencement  of  our  literature, 
and  our  advantageous  position  with  regard  to  the  most 
important  subjects  of  research  and  speculation,  justify  the 
hope.  Schools  may  be  well  endowed,  and  individuals  may 
labor  with  loving  earnestness  upon  their  life-poems,  but 
the  whole  people,  by  recognizing  the  principle  of  beauty 
as  a  law  of  life,  and  cheering  with  their  encouragement 
its  teachers  who  shall  deserve  their  best  approval,  and  by 


GRISWOLD]  PROGRESS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE.     107 

cherishing  a  hearty  love  of  our  country,  and  making 
ceaseless  efforts  to  render  it  in  all  respects  worthy  of 
affection,  must  aid  in  rearing  the  noble  structure  of  a 
National  Literature  that  shall  fulfil  our  promise  to  man 
kind,  and  realize  the  prophecy  which  nearly  a  century  ago 
was  made  of  our  destiny  by  one  of  the  wisest  of  the  sons 
of  Europe. 

The  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 

Barren  of  every  glorious  theme, 
In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time, 

Producing  subjects  worthy  fame. 

In  happy  climes,  where  from  the  genial  sun 

And  virgin  earth  such  scenes  ensue, 
The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone, 

And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true ; 

In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 

Where  nature  guides  and  virtue  rules  ; 
Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 

The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools, 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  rise  of  empires  and  of  arts, 
The  good  and  great,  inspiring  epic  rage, 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay, 
Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 

When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 
By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way ; 

The  first  four  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day : 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 

BERKELEY. 


108  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [BABTKAM 

CROCODILES  ON  THE  ST.  JOHN'S. 

WILLIAM  BARTRAM. 

[The  history  of  American  science  in  the  eighteenth  century  is  Con 
fined  to  a  very  few  names,  of  which  by  far  the  best  known  are  those 
of  Benjamin  Franklin  and  the  two  Bartrams,  father  and  son.  John 
Bartram  was  born  in  Delaware  County,  Pennsylvania,  in  1701.  He 
und  Franklin  were  the  first  Americans  to  gain  a  European  reputation 
as  scientists,  Linnaeus  pronouncing  John  Bartram  "  the  greatest  nat 
ural  botanist  in  the  world."  He  established  a  fine  botanical  garden 
near  Philadelphia,  enriched  with  many  rare  plants.  This  garden  still 
remains,  having  in  its  centre  the  quaint  old  stone  mansion  built  by 
Bartram  with  his  own  hands.  He  died  in  1777.  His  son  William, 
born  in  1739,  was  equally  active  in  botanical  pursuits,  and  made  a 
five-years'  exploration  of  the  natural  productions  of  the  region  from 
the  Carolinas  to  Florida.  The  work  in  which  this  expedition  is  de 
scribed,  "  Travels  through  North  and  South  Carolina,  Georgia,  and 
East  and  West  Florida,"  is  full  of  interesting  and  valuable  informa 
tion,  descriptive  of  a  state  of  nature  which  no  longer  exists.  Croco 
dile-hunters  in  Florida,  for  instance,  might  not  care  to  find  their  game 
in  such  profusion  as  is  described  in  the  following  vivid  narrative. 
William  Bartram  died  in  1823.] 

THE  evening  was  temperately  cool  and  calm.  The 
crocodiles  began  to  roar  and  appear  in  uncommon  num 
bers  along  the  shores  and  in  the  river.  I  fixed  my  camp 
in  an  open  plain,  near  the  utmost  projection  of  the  prom 
ontory,  under  the  shelter  of  a  large  live-oak,  which 
stood  on  the  highest  part  of  the  ground  and  but  a  few 
yards  from  my  boat.  From  this  open,  high  situation  I 
had  a  free  prospect  of  the  river,  which  was  a  matter 
of  no  trivial  consideration  to  me,  having  good  reason 
to  dread  the  subtle  attacks  of  the  alligators,  who  were 
crowding  about  my  harbor.  Having  collected  a  good 
quantity  of  wood  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  up  a  light 


BARTRAM]     CROCODILES  ON  THE  ST.  JOHN'S.  109 

and  smoke  during  the  night,  I  began  to  think  of  pre 
paring  my  supper,  when,  upon  examining  my  stores,  I 
found  but  a  scanty  provision.  I  thereupon  determined,  as 
the  most  expeditious  way  of  supplying  my  necessities,  to 
take  my  bob  and  try  for  some  trout.  Aboiit  one  hundred 
yards  above  my  harbor  began  a  cove  or  bay  of  the  river, 
out  of  which  opened  a  large  lagoon.  The  mouth  or 
entrance  from  the  river  to  it  was  narrow,  but  the  waters 
soon  after  spread  and  formed  a  little  lake,  extending  into 
the  marshes :  its  entrance  and  shores  within  I  observed 
to  be  verged  with  floating  lawns  of  the  pistia  and  nym- 
phea  and  other  aquatic  plants :  these  I  knew  were  excel 
lent  haunts  for  trout. 

The  verges  and  islets  of  the  lagoon  were  elegantly 
embellished  with  flowering  plants  and  shrubs ;  the  laugh 
ing  coots,  with  wings  half  spread,  were  tripping  over  the 
little  coves  and  hiding  themselves  in  the  tufts  of  grass ; 
young  broods  of  the  painted  summer  teal,  skimming  the 
still  surface  of  the  waters,  and  following  the  watchful 
parent  unconscious  of  danger,  were  frequently  surprised 
by  the  voracious  trout;  and  he,  in  turn,  as  often  by  the 
subtle,  greedy  alligator.  Behold  him  rushing  forth  from 
the  flags  and  reeds.  His  enormous  body  swells.  His 
plaited  tail,  brandished  high,  floats  upon  the  lake.  The 
waters  like  a  cataract  descend  from  his  opening  jaws. 
Clouds  of  smoke  issue  from  his  dilated  nostrils.  The 
earth  trembles  with  his  thunder.  When  immediately 
from  the  opposite  coast  of  the  lagoon  emerges  from  the 
deep  his  rival  champion.  They  suddenly  dart  upon  each 
other.  The  boiling  surface  of  the  lake  marks  their  rapid 
course,  and  a  terrific  conflict  commences.  They  now  sink 
to  the  bottom,  folded  together  in  horrid  wreaths.  The 
water  becomes  thick  and  discolored.  Again  they  rise. 
Their  jaws  clap  together,  re-echoing  through  the  deep 
ii.  10 


110  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [BARTRAM 

surrounding  forests.  Again  they  sink,  when  the  contest 
ends  at  the  muddy  bottom  of  the  lake,  and  the  vanquished 
makes  a  hazardous  escape,  hiding  himself  in  the  muddy, 
turbulent  waters  and  sedge  on  a  distant  shore.  The  proud 
victor  exulting  returns  to  the  place  of  action.  The  shores 
and  forests  resound  his  dreadful  roar,  together  with  the 
triumphing  shouts  of  the  plaited  tribes  around,  witnesses 
of  the  horrid  combat. 

My  apprehensions  were  highly  alarmed  after  being  a 
spectator  of  so  dreadful  a  battle.  It  was  obvious  that 
every  delay  would  but  tend  to  increase  my  dangers  and 
difficulties,  as  the  sun  was  near  setting,  and  the  alligators 
gathered  around  my  harbor  from  all  quarters.  From 
these  considerations  I  concluded  to  be  expeditious  in 
my  trip  to  the  lagoon  in  order  to  take  some  fish.  Not 
thinking  it  prudent  to  take  my  fusee  with  me,  lest  I 
might  lose  it  overboard  in  case  of  a  battle,  which  I  had 
every  reason  to  dread  before  my  return,  I  therefore  fur 
nished  myself  with  a  club  for  my  defence,  went  on  board, 
and,  penetrating  the  first  line  of  those  which  surrounded 
my  harbor,  they  gave  way ;  but,  being  pursued  by  several 
very  large  ones,  I  kept  strictly  on  the  watch,  and  paddled 
with  all  my  might  towards  the  entrance  of  the  lagoon, 
hoping  to  be  sheltered  there  from  the  multitude  of  my 
assailants ;  but  ere  I  had  half-way  reached  the  place  I  was 
attacked  on  all  sides,  several  endeavoring  to  overset  the 
canoe.  My  situation  now  became  precarious  to  the  last 
degree :  two  very  large  ones  attacked  me  closely,  at  the 
same  instant,  rushing  up  with  their  heads  and  part  of 
their  bodies  above  the  water,  roaring  terribly  and  belching 
floods  of  water  over  me.  They  struck  their  jaws  together 
so  close  to  my  ears  as  almost  to  stun  me,  and  I  expected 
every  moment  to  be  dragged  out  of  the  boat  and  instantly 
devoured.  But  I  applied  my  weapons  so  effectually  about 


BARTRAM]     CROCODILES  ON  THE  ST.  JOHN'S.  HI 

me,  though  at  random,  that  I  was  so  successful  as  to  beat 
them  off  a  little;  when,  finding  that  they  designed  to 
renew  the  battle,  I  made  for  the  shore,  as  the  only  means 
left  me  for  my  preservation ;  for  by  keeping  close  to  it  I 
should  have  my  enemies  on  one  side  of  me  only,  whereas 
I  was  before  surrounded  by  them  ;  and  there  was  a  prob 
ability,  if  pushed  to  the  last  extremity,  of  saving  myself 
by  jumping  out  of  the  canoe  on  shore,  as  it  is  easy  to  out 
walk  them  on  land,  although  comparatively  as  swift  as 
lightning  in  the  water.  I  found  this  last  expedient  alone 
could  fully  answer  my  expectations,  for  as  soon  as  I 
gained  the  shore  they  drew  off  and  kept  aloof.  This  was 
a  happy  relief,  as  my  confidence  was  in  some  degree  re 
covered  by  it.  On  recollecting  myself,  I  discovered  that 
I  had  almost  reached  the  entrance  of  the  lagoon,  and  de 
termined  to  venture  in,  if  possible,  to  take  a  few  fish,  and 
then  return  to  my  harbor,  while  daylight  continued ;  for 
I  could  now,  with  caution  and  resolution,  make  my  way 
with  safety  along  shore ;  and  indeed  there  was  no  other 
way  to  regain  my  camp,  without  leaving  my  boat  and 
making  my  retreat  through  the  marshes  and  reeds,  which, 
if  I  could  even  effect,  would  have  been  in  a  manner 
throwing  myself  away,  for  then  there  would  have  been 
no  hopes  of  ever  recovering  my  bark  and  returning  in 
safety  to  any  settlements  of  men.  I  accordingly  proceeded, 
and  made  good  my  entrance  into  the  lagoon,  though  not 
without  opposition  from  the  alligators,  who  formed  a  line 
across  the  entrance,  but  did  not  pursue  me  into  it ;  nor 
was  I  molested  by  any  there,  though  there  were  some 
very  large  ones  in  a  cove  at  the  upper  end.  I  soon  caught 
more  trout  than  I  had  present  occasion  for,  and  the  air 
was  too  hot  and  sultry  to  admit  of  their  being  kept  for 
many  hours,  even  though  salted  or  barbecued.  I  now 
prepared  for  my  return  to  camp,  which  I  succeeded  in 


112  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [BARTRAM 

with  but  little  trouble,  by  keeping  close  to  the  shore;  yet 
I  was  opposed  upon  re-entering  the  river  out  of  the  lagoon, 
and  pursued  near  to  my  landing  (though  not  closely  at 
tacked),  particularly  by  an  old  daring  one,  about  twelve 
feet  in  length,  who  kept  close  after  me ;  and  when  I 
stepped  on  shore  and  turned  about,  in  order  to  draAv  up 
my  canoe,  he  rushed  up  near  my  feet,  and  lay  there  for 
some  time,  looking  me  in  the  face,  his  head  and  shoulders 
out  of  water.  I  resolved  he  should  pay  for  his  temerity, 
and,  having  a  heavy  load  in  my  fusee,  I  ran  to  my  camp, 
and,  returning  with  my  piece,  found  him  with  his  foot  on 
the  gunwale  of  the  boat,  in  search  offish.  On  my  coming 
up  he  withdrew  sullenly  and  slowly  into  the  water,  but 
soon  returned  and  placed  himself  in  his  former  position, 
looking  at  me,  and  seeming  neither  fearful  nor  anyway 
disturbed.  I  soon  despatched  him  by  lodging  the  contents 
of  my  gun  in  his  head,  and  then  proceeded  to  cleanse  and 
prepare  my  fish  for  supper,  and  according^  took  them  out 
of  the  boat,  laid  them  down  on  the  sand  close  to  the  water, 
and  began  to  scale  them  ;  when,  raising  my  head,  I  saw 
before  me,  through  the  clear  water,  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  a  very  large  alligator,  moving  slowly  towards  me.  I 
instantly  stepped  back,  when,  with  a  sweep  of  his  tail,  he 
brushed  off  several  of  my  fish.  It  was  certainly  most 
providential  that  I  looked  up  at  that  instant,  as  the  mon 
ster  would  probably  in  less  than  a  minute  have  seized  and 
dragged  me  into  the  river.  This  incredible  boldness  of 
the  animal  disturbed  me  greatly,  supposing  there  could 
now  be  no  reasonable  safety  for  me  during  the  night  but 
by  keeping  continually  on  the  watch :  I  therefore,  as  soon 
as  I  had  prepared  the  fish,  proceeded  to  secure  myself  and 
effects  in  the  best  manner  I  could.  In  the  first  place,  I 
hauled  my  bark  up  on  the  shore,  almost  clear  out  of  the 
water,  to  prevent  their  oversetting  or  sinking  her ;  after 


BAKTRAM]     CROCODILES  ON  THE  ST.   JOHN'S.  113 

this,  every  movable  was  taken  out  and  carried  to  my  camp, 
which  was  but  a  few  yards  off;  then,  ranging  some  dry 
wood  in  such  order  as  was  the  most  convenient,  I  cleared 
the  ground  round  about  it,  that  there  might  be  no  impedi 
ment  in  my  way  in  case  of  an  attack  in  the  night,  either 
from  the  water  or  the  land ;  for  I  discovered  by  this  time 
that  this  small  isthmus,  from  its  remote  situation  and 
fruitfulness,  was  resorted  to  by  bears  and  wolves.  Hav 
ing  prepared  myself  in  the  best  manner  I  could,  I  charged 
my  gun  and  proceeded  to  reconnoitre  my  camp  and  the 
adjacent  grounds ;  when  I  discovered  that  the  peninsula 
and  grove,  at  the  distance  of  about  two  hundred  yards 
from  my  encampment,  on  the  land  side,  were  invested  by 
a  cypress-swamp,  covered  with  water,  which  below  was 
joined  to  the  shore  of  the  little  lake,  and  above  to  the 
marshes  surrounding  the  lagoon :  so  that  I  was  confined 
to  an  island  exceedingly  circumscribed,  and  I  found  there 
was  no  other  retreat  for  me,  in  case  of  an  attack,  but  by 
either  ascending  one  of  the  large  oaks  or  pushing  off  with 
my  boat. 

It  was  by  this  time  dusk,  and  the  alligators  had  nearly 
ceased  their  roar,  when  I  was  again  alarmed  by  a  tumult 
uous  noise  that  seemed  to  be  in  my  harbor  and  therefore 
engaged  my  immediate  attention.  Returning  to  my  camp, 
I  found  it  undisturbed,  and  then  continued  on  to  the  ex 
treme  point  of  the  promontory,  where  I  saw  a  scene,  new 
and  surprising,  which  at  first  threw  my  senses  into  such 
u  tumult  that  it  was  some  time  before  I  could  comprehend 
what  was  the  matter ;  however,  I  soon  accounted  for  the 
prodigious  assemblage  of  crocodiles  at  this  place,  which 
exceeded  everything  of  the  kind  I  had  ever  heard  of. 

How  shall  I  express  myself  so  as  to  convey  an  adequate 
idea  of  it  to  the  reader  and  at  the  same  time  avoid  raising 
suspicions  of  my  veracity  ?  Should  I  say  that  the  river 
u.— h  10* 


114  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [BARTRAM 

(in  this  place)  from  shore  to  shore,  and  perhaps  near  half 
a  mile  above  and  below  me,  appeared  to  be  one  solid  bank 
of  fish,  of  various  kinds,  pushing  through  this  narrow 
pass  of  St.  Juan's  into  the  little  lake,  on  their  return  down 
the  river,  and  that  the  alligators  were  in  such  incredible 
numbers,  and  so  close  together  from  shore  to  shore,  that 
it  would  have  been  easy  to  have  walked  across  on  their 
heads,  had  the  animals  been  harmless  ?  What  expressions 
can  sufficiently  declare  the  shocking  scene  that  for  some 
minutes  continued,  while  this  mighty  army  of  fish  were 
forcing  the  pass  ?  During  this  attempt,  thousands,  I  may 
say  hundreds  of  thousands,  of  them  were  caught  and 
swallowed  by  the  devouring  alligators.  I  have  seen  an 
alligator  take  up  out  of  the  water  several  great  fish  at  a 
time,  and  just  squeeze  them  betwixt  his  jaws,  while  the 
tails  of  the  great  trout  flapped  about  his  eyes  and  lips  ere 
he  had  swallowed  them.  The  horrid  noise  of  their  closing 
jaws,  their  plunging  amidst  the  broken  banks  of  fish,  and 
rising  with  their  prey  some  feet  upright  above  the  water, 
the  floods  of  water  and  blood  rushing  out  of  their  mouths, 
and  the  clouds  of  vapor  issuing  from  their  wide  nostrils, 
were  truly  frightful.  This  scene  continued  at  intervals 
during  the  night,  as  the  fish  came  to  the  pass.  After  this 
eight,  shocking  and  tremendous  as  it  was,  I  found  myself 
somewhat  easier  and  more  reconciled  to  my  situation, 
being  convinced  that  their  extraordinary  assemblage  here 
was  owing  to  this  annual  feast  of  fish,  and  that  they  were 
BO  well  employed  in  their  own  element  that  I  had  little 
occasion  to  fear  their  paying  me  a  visit. 

It  being  now  almost  night,  I  returned  to  my  camp, 
where  I  had  left  my  fish  broiling  and  my  kettle  of  rice 
stewing ;  and,  having  with  me  oil,  pepper,  and  salt,  and 
excellent  oranges  hanging  in  abundance  over  my  head  (a 
valuable  substitute  for  vinegar),  I  sat  down  and  regaled 


MC.MASTEK]  LIFE  IN  PHILADELPHIA   IN  1800.  115 

myself  cheerfully.  Having  finished  my  repast,  I  rekindled 
my  fire  for  light,  and,  whilst  I  was  revising  the  notes  of 
my  past  day's  journey,  I  was  suddenly  roused  with  a 
noise  behind  me  toward  the  mainland.  I  sprang  up  on 
my  feet,  and,  listening,  I  distinctly  heard  some  creature 
wading  in  the  water  of  the  isthmus.  I  seized  my  gun 
and  went  cautiously  from  my  camp,  directing  my  steps 
towards  the  noise:  when  I  had  advanced  about  thirty 
yards,  I  halted  behind  a  coppice  of  orange-trees,  and  soon 
perceived  two  very  large  bears,  which  had  made  their  way 
through  the  water,  and  had  landed  in  the  grove,  about  one 
hundred  yards'  distance  from  me,  and  were  advancing 
towards  me.  I  waited  until  they  were  within  thirty  yards 
of  me ;  they  there  began  to  snuff  and  look  towards  my 
camp :  I  snapped  my  piece,  but  it  flashed,  on  which  they 
both  turned  about  and  galloped  off,  plunging  through 
the  water  and  swamp,  never  halting,  as  I  suppose,  until 
they  reached  fast  land,  as  I  could  hear  them  leaping  and 
plunging  a  long  time.  They  did  not  presume  to  return 
again,  nor  was  I  molested  by  any  other  creature,  except 
being  occasionally  awakened  by  the  whooping  of  owls, 
screaming  of  bitterns,  or  the  wood-rats  running  amongst 
the  leaves. 


LIFE  IN  PHILADELPHIA  IN  1800. 

JOHN  B.   McMASTER. 

[Of  late  historical  works  there  are  none  which  have  attracted  more 
attention,  or  have  been  more  favorably  received,  than  the  "  History  of 
the  People  of  the  United  States,"  by  John  Bach  McMaster.  The  two 
volumes  of  this  work  so  far  issued  are  full  of  those  minute  details  of 
social  and  industrial  conditions,  and  matters  of  popular  interest,  which 


116  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.        [McMxsTEK 

readers  now  demand  as  an  essential  part  of  all  true  history.  Mr. 
McMaster  was  born  in  Brooklyn,  New  York,  in  1852.  Since  1883  he 
has  been  professor  of  history  in  the  University  of  Pennsylvania.] 

THE  law  then  required  every  householder  to  be  a  fire 
man.  His  name  might  not  appear  on  the  rolls  of  any  of 
the  fire-companies,  he  might  not  help  to  drag  through  the 
streets  the  lumbering  tank  which  served  as  a  fire-engine, 
but  he  must  at  least  have  in  his  hall-pantry,  or  beneath 
the  stairs,  or  hanging  up  behind  his  shop  door,  four 
leathern  buckets  inscribed  with  his  name,  and  a  huge  bag 
of  canvas  or  of  duck.  Then,  if  he  were  aroused  at  the 
dead  of  night  by  the  cry  of  fire  and  the  clanging  of  every 
church-bell  in  the  town,  he  seized  his  buckets  and  his  bag, 
and,  while  his  wife  put  a  lighted  candle  in  the  window 
to  illuminate  the  street,  set  off  for  the  fire.  The  smoke 
or  the  flame  was  his  guide,  for  the  custom  of  fixing  the 
place  of  the  fire  by  a  number  of  strokes  on  a  bell  had  not 
yet  come  in.  When  at  last  he  arrived  at  the  scene  he 
found  there  no  idle  spectators.  Each  one  was  busy. 
Some  hurried  into  the  building  and  filled  their  sacks  with 
such  movable  goods  as  came  nearest  to  hand.  Some  joined 
the  line  that  stretched  away  to  the  water,  and  helped  to 
pass  the  full  buckets  to  those  who  stood  by  the  flames. 
Others  took  posts  in  a  second  line,  down  which  the  empty 
pails  were  hastened  to  the  pump.  The  house  would  often 
be  half  consumed  when  the  shouting  made  known  that 
the  engine  had  come.  It  was  merely  a  pump  mounted 
over  a  tank.  Into  the  tank  the  water  from  the  buckets 
was  poured,  and  pumped  thence  by  the  efforts  of  a  dozen 
men.  No  such  thing  as  a  suction-hose  was  seen  in  Phila 
delphia  till  1794.  A  year  later  one  was  made  which 
became  the  wonder  of  the  city.  The  length  was  one 
hundred  and  sixty  feet.  The  material  was  canvas,  and, 
to  guard  against  decay,  was  carefully  steeped  in  brine 


McHASTER]  LIFE  IN  PHILADELPHIA   IN  1800.  117 

The  fire-buckets,  it  was  now  thought,  should  be  larger, 
and  a  motion  to  that  effect  was  made  in  the  Common 
Council.  But  when  it  was  known  that  the  new  buckets, 
if  ordered,  must  hold  ten  quarts,  the  people  protested. 
Ten  quarts  would  weigh  twenty  pounds,  and  the  bucket 
five  pounds  more.  This  was  too  much ;  for,  as  everybody 
knew,  the  lines  at  a  fire  were  often  made  up  of  boys  and 
'ads  not  used  to  passing  heavy  weights.  Eight  quarts 
was  enough.  Much  could  also  be  accomplished  by  cutting 
the  city  into  fire-wards  and  giving  a  different  color  to  the 
buckets  of  each  ward.  They  could  then  be  quickly  sorted 
when  the  fire  was  put  out.  At  New  London  five  fire 
wardens  took  charge  of  the  engines  and  all  who  aided  in 
putting  out  fires.  To  disobey  a  warden's  order  was  to 
incur  a  fine  of  one  pound.  If  a  good  leatherp  bucket  was 
not  kept  hanging  in  some  convenient  place  in  the  house, 
and  shown  to  the  warden  when  he  called,  six  shillings  a 
month  was  exacted  as  punishment.  At  New  York,  how 
ever,  it  was  long  before  the  buckets  gave  way  to  the  hose. 
There,  if  a  householder  were  old,  or  feeble,  or  rich,  and 
not  disposed  to  quit  a  warm  bed  to  carry  his  buckets  to 
the  fire,  he  was  expected  at  least  to  send  them  by  his 
servant  or  his  slave.  When  the  flames  had  been  extin 
guished,  the  buckets  were  left  in  the  street,  to  be  sought 
out  and  brought  home  again  by  their  owners.  If  the 
constables  performed  this  duty,  the  corporation  exacted  a 
six-shilling  fine  for  each  pail.  This  was  thought  excessive, 
and  caused  much  murmuring  and  discontent.  Some  people 
undoubtedly,  it  was  said,  were  careless  in  looking  for  their 
buckets  after  a  fire.  These  could  easily  be  made  diligent 
by  a  small  fine.  A  great  one  was  a  strong  temptation  to 
the  constables  to  hide  away  the  buckets  to  get  the  reward. 
Others,  again,  having  come  down  the  line  empty,  were 
tossed  into  the  river  so  carelessly  as  to  fill  and  sink  in- 


118  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.         [McMASTBB 

stantly.  Innocent  people  were  thus  put  to  needless  ex 
pense.  Let  some  one  be  appointed  and  paid  to  fill  the 
buckets  properly.  While  so  disagreeable  a  part  was  vol 
untary,  it  was  very  hard  to  find  a  man  to  do  it  well.  It 
would  be  wise,  also,  to  renew  the  old  custom  of  inspecting 
chimneyB,  stoves,  and  ash-houses.  They  were  fruitful 
sources  of  fire. 

That  nothing  should  be  left  undone  that  could  lessen 
the  chances  of  destruction  by  fire  was  most  important. 
Few  buildings  and  little  property  were  at  that  time  in 
sured.  The  oldest  company  in  New  York  had  existed  but 
twelve  years.  Forty-five  years  had  not  gone  by  since  the 
first  fire-insurance  policy  in  America  began  to  run.  Early 
in  February,  1752,  a  notice  came  out  in  the  Pennsylvania 
Gazette  inviting  such  prudent  citizens  of  Philadelphia  as 
wished  to  insure  their  houses  from  loss  by  fire,  to  meet  at 
the  court-house.  There,  every  seventh  day,  subscriptions 
would  be  taken  till  the  thirteenth  of  April.  Many  came, 
and,  on  the  April  day  named  in  the  notice,  chose  twelve 
directors  and  a  treasurer.  At  the  head  of  the  poll  stood 
Benjamin  Franklin.  He  has,  therefore,  often  been  sup 
posed  to  have  founded  the  Philadelphia  Contributorship 
for  the  Insurance  of  Houses  from  Loss  by  Fire.  But  the 
father  of  fire-insurance  in  the  United  States  is,  beyond  a 
doubt,  John  Smith.  The  contributors  took  risks  in  Phila 
delphia,  and  in  so  much  of  the  country  as  lay  within  ten 
miles  of  the  town.  The  rate  was  twenty  shillings  on  a 
hundred  pounds.  The  policy  was  for  seven  years.  The 
premium  was  in  the  nature  of  a  loan.  Every  man  who 
insured  his  dwelling  or  his  shop  left  a  few  shillings  with 
the  treasurer,  had  his  property  surveyed,  and  in  a  week's 
time,  if  all  went  well,  deposited  the  premium.  The  con 
tributors  then  nailed  their  "  mark"  to  the  front  of  his 
building.  When  the  seven  years  were  out,  the  money  was 


McMlSTEB]  LIFE  IN  PHILADELPHIA   IN  1800.  119 

returned  without  interest,  or  the  insurance  renewed.  It 
was  announced,  however,  that  the  company  would  take  no 
risks  on  houses  surrounded  by  shade-trees.  They  inter 
fered  with  the  use  of  buckets,  and  the  huge  syringe  which, 
at  that  time,  every  man  carried  to  the  fire  with  his  pail. 
A  rival,  therefore,  started  up,  took  these  dangerous  risks, 
and  assumed  as  the  mark  it  fastened  to  patrons'  houses 
the  image  of  a  green  tree. 

The  houses  thus  covered  by  insurance  were,  in  general, 
of  a  comfortable  but  unpretentious  sort.  They  were  all 
alike,  both  without  and  within,  and  each  had  on  the  lower 
floor  two  connecting  rooms.  If  the  owner  were  a  trades 
man,  the  front  room  was  his  shop.  If  he  were  a  lawyer, 
it  was  his  ofiice.  If  a  doctor,  it  was  there  he  saw  his  pa 
tients,  compounded  his  prescriptions,  and  kept  his  drugs ; 
for  only  the  great  practitioners  then  sent  their  patients  to 
the  apothecary.  The  rear  room  was  for  family  use.  There 
they  met  at  meal-time,  and  in  the  evening  there  they  sat 
and  drank  tea.  Above-stairs  the  front  room  extended 
across  the  whole  house.  People  of  fashion  spoke  of  it  as 
the  tea-room  or  the  drawing-room  ;  but  among  those  who 
affected  no  fashion  it  passed  by  the  name  of  parlor.  In, 
it  the  tea-parties  by  invitation  were  held.  On  such  occa 
sions  the  hostess  alone  sat  at  the  table.  The  guests  were 
scattered  about  the  room,  and  to  them  the  servants  brought 
tea  and  rusks  and  cake,  and  sometimes  fruit  and  wine. 
"When  the  gathering  was  less  formal,  when  some  friends 
or  neighbors,  as  the  custom  was,  had  come  in  unbidden  to 
tea,  the  little  room  behind  the  office  or  the  shop  was  used. 
Then  all  sat  about  the  long  table,  and,  tea  over,  listened 
to  music  and  songs.  Every  man  and  woman  who  had 
wen  a  fair  voice  was  in  turn  called  on  to  sing.  The  others, 
it  was  expected,  could  at  least  play.  Among  instruments 
the  German  flute  was  a  favorite,  and  for  women  the  four- 


120  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.         [McMASTEB 

stringed  guitar;  but  not  the  violin.  That  was  ungenteel, 
for  Lord  Chesterfield  had  pronounced  it  so.  To  the  ac 
companiment  of  the  guitar  and  flute  the  men  sang  hunt 
ing-songs,  and  the  women  Scotch  ballads  and  English  airs 
"  Water  parted  from  the  Sea,"  "  Fair  Aurora,  pray  thee 
Stay,"  "  In  Infancy  our  Hopes  and  Fears,"  "  Bess  of  Bed 
lam,"  and  "  Queen  Mary's  Lament,"  were  favorites  every 
where.  There  were  those  who  heard  with  delight  "  Hark, 
away  to  the  Downs,"  and  "  I  love  them  All." 

There  were  others  also  who  looked  down  on  such  inno 
cent  amusement  with  contempt.  To  their  ears  no  musio 
was  pleasing  which  did  not  form  part  of  some  French 
opera  and  was  not  to  be  heard  at  a  concert  in  a  tea-garden 
or  a  public  hall.  French  manners  had  corrupted  them. 
Since  the  fall  of  the  Bastile,  it  was  said  complainingly,  every 
Republican  must  dress  like  a  Frenchman,  and  every  Fed 
eralist  like  a  subject  of  King  George.  If  you  happen  to 
oppose  the  administration,  you  must  go  regularly  to  the 
shop  of  M.  Sansculotte,  before  whose  door  is  a  flaring 
liberty-pole,  painted  tricolor  and  surmounted  with  a  red 
cap  of  liberty,  and  have  your  hair  cut  a  la  Brutus ;  your 
pantaloons  must  fit  tight  to  the  leg  and  come  down  to 
your  yellow  top-boots,  or,  better  yet,  your  shoes.  If  you 
persist  in  wearing  breeches  and  silk  stockings  and  square- 
toed  boots,  then  are  you  an  old  fogy,  or  a  Federalist,  which 
is  the  same  thing,  and  must  inscribe  your  brass  buttons, 
"  Long  live  the  President." 

The  folly  of  the  French  dress  was  a  source  of  never- 
ending  amusement.  Satire,  raillery,  invective,  the  lamen 
tations  of  the  weeping  philosopher,  and  the  exhortations 
of  the  preacher,  were  exhausted  in  ^ain.  Dress  became 
every  season  more  and  more  hideous,  more  and  more 
uncomfortable,  more  and  more  devoid  of  good  sense  and 
good  taste.  Use  and  beauty  ceased  to  be  combined.  The 


McMASTER]  LIFE  IN  PHILADELPHIA  IN  1800.  121 

pantaloons  of  a  beau  went  up  to  his  armpits ;  to  get  into 
them  was  a  morning's  work,  and,  when  in,  to  sit  down 
was  impossible.  His  hat  was  too  small  to  contain  his 
handkerchief,  and  was  not  expected  to  stay  on  his  head. 
His  hair  was  brushed  from  the  crown  of  his  head  toward 
his  forehead,  and  looked,  as  a  satirist  of  that  day  truly 
said,  as  if  he  had  been  fighting  an  old-fashioned  hurricane 
backward.  About  his  neck  was  a  spotted  linen  necker 
chief;  the  skirts  of  his  green  coat  were  cut  away  to  a 
mathematical  point  behind  ;  his  favorite  drink  was  brandy, 
and  his  favorite  talk  of  the  last  French  play.  Then  there 
was  the  "  dapper  beau,"  who  carried  a  stick  much  too 
short  to  reach  the  ground,  twisted  his  Brutus-cropped 
hair  into  curls,  and,  upon  the  very  crown  of  his  head, 
wore  a  hat  of  a  snuff-box  size.  But  the  politest  man  on 
earth  was  the  shopkeeping  beau.  He  would  jump  over 
a  counter  four  feet  high  to  pick  up  a  lady's  handkerchief, 
made  the  handsomest  bows,  said  the  best  things,  and  could 
talk  on  any  subject,  from  the  odor  of  a  roll  of  pomatum 
to  the  vulgarity  of  not  wearing  wigs. 

Even  these  absurdities  were  not  enough,  and,  when  1800 
began,  fashion  was  more  extravagant  still.  Then  a  beau 
was  defined  as  anything  put  into  a  pair  of  pantaloons 
with  a  binding  sewed  round  the  top  and  called  a  vest. 
The  skirts  of  the  coat  should  be  pared  away  to  the  width 
of  a  hat-band,  and,  if  he  was  doomed  to  pass  his  time  in 
the  house,  he  would  require  a  heavy  pair  of  round-toed 
jack-boots  with  a  tassel  before  and  behind.  These  pro 
vided,  lift  him,  said  the  satirist,  lift  him  by  the  cape  of  the 
coat,  pull  his  hair  over  his  face,  lay  a  hat  on  his  forehead, 
put  spectacles  on  his  nose,  and  on  no  account  let  his  hands 
escape  from  the  pockets  of  his  pantaloons.  Women  were 
thought  worse  than  the  men.  To  determine  the  style  of 
their  dress,  Fashion,  Decency,  and  Health,  the  statement 

II.- F  11 


122  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.        [McMxsTEB 

was,  ran  a  race.  Decency  lost  her  spirits,  Health  was 
bribed  by  a  quack-doctor,  so  Fashion  won. 

Such  must  drink  tea  in  the  alcoves,  the  arbors,  the 
shady  walks,  of  Gray's  Garden.  They  must  visit  Bush 
Hill,  hear  the  music,  see  the  fireworks,  and  watch  the 
huge  figure  walk  about  the  grounds.  For  them,  too,  were 
the  Assembly  and  the  play.  The  Assembly-Eoom  was  at 
Oeller's  Tavern,  and  made  one  of  the  sights  of  the  town. 
The  length  was  sixty  feet.  The  walls  were  papered  in 
the  French  fashion,  and  adorned  with  Pantheon  figures, 
festoons,  pilasters,  and  groups  of  antique  drawings.  Across 
one  end  was  a  fine  music-gallery.  The  rules  of  the  As 
sembly  were  framed  and  hung  upon  the  wall.  The  man 
agers  had  entire  control.  Without  their  leave,  no  lady 
could  quit  her  place  in  the  dance,  nor  dance  out  of  her 
set,  nor  could  she  complain  if  they  placed  strangers  or 
brides  at  the  head  of  the  dance.  The  ladies  were  to  rank 
in  sets  and  draw  for  places  as  they  entered  the  room. 
Those  who  led  might  call  the  dances  alternately.  When 
each  set  had  danced  a  country-dance,  a  cotillion  might  be 
had  if  eight  ladies  wished  it.  Gentlemen  could  not  come 
into  the  room  in  boots,  colored  stockings,  or  undress.  At 
Hanover  gentlemen  were  forbidden  to  enter  the  ball-room 
"  without  breeches,"  or  to  dance  "  without  coats." 

Equally  fine  in  its  decorations  was  the  theatre.  Travel 
lers  were  divided  in  their  opinion  as  to  whether  the  finest 
house  was  at  Charleston,  or  Boston,  or  Philadelphia.  Bui 
it  seems  to  have  been  at  Philadelphia.  Great  sums  had 
been  laid  out  on  the  building.  Gilders  and  painters,  fres- 
coers  and  carvers,  had  been  brought  from  England  to 
assist  in  the  decoration,  and,  mindful  of  the  opposition 
once  made  by  the  good  people  of  the  city,  the  managers 
put  Tip  over  the  stage  the  words,  "  The  Eagle  suffers  the 
little  Birds  to  sing."  One  who  saw  the  place  in  1794 


McMASTER]  LIFE  IN  PHILADELPHIA   IN  1800.  123 

declares  that  it  reminded  him  of  an  English  playhouse. 
The  scenes,  the  plays,  the  names  of  the  actors  ;  the  ladies 
in  small  hats  of  checkered  straw,  or  with  hair  in  full  dress 
or  put  up  in  the  French  way,  or,  if  they  chanced  to  be 
young,  arranged  in  long  ringlets  that  hung  down  their 
backs;  the  men,  in  round  hats  and  silk-striped  coats 
with  high  collars  of  English  make,  might  well  have  pro 
duced  that  effect.  More  than  one  of  the  players  had 
often  been  seen  by  the  crowds  that  frequented  the 
Haymarket  Theatre  at  London.  No  seats  were  reserved. 
No  tickets  were  sold  at  the  door.  No  programmes  wero 
distributed.  No  ushers  were  present.  Gentlemen  who 
left  the  theatre  during  the  play,  to  drink  flip  at  a  neigh 
boring  tavern,  were  given  printed  checks  as  they  passed 
out,  which,  if  they  came  back,  would  admit  them.  Out 
of  this  custom  grew  three  evils.  Some,  not  intending  to 
return,  gave  away  their  checks  to  idle  boys  and  disorderly 
persons,  who  thus  gained  admittance  and  annoyed  the 
audience.  Again,  crowds  of  half-grown  lads  hung  about 
the  doors  and,  as  every  one  came  out,  beset  him  with  de 
mands  for  a  check.  In  this  way  the  tickets  passed  into 
the  hands  of  counterfeiters,  and  were  sold  for  a  shilling 
to  persons  of  low  character.  All  this,  the  proprietors  de 
clared,  was  ruinous  to  good  morals,  and,  in  a  public  appeal, 
begged  their  patrons  not  to  give  their  checks  to  loungers. 
The  curtain  went  up  at  an  hour  when  the  men  of  our  time 
have  scarcely  returned  to  their  homes.  The  entertain 
ment  was  long  and  varied.  Pieces  now  thought  enough 
for  one  night's  amusement  were  then  commonly  followed 
by  farces  and  comedies,  dances  and  tragedies,  songs,  pan 
tomimes,  and  acrobatic  feats.  These  were  called  interlocu 
tory  entertainments,  and  came  in  between  the  acts  of  the 
tragedy  or  before  and  just  after  the  farce.  Sometimes 
the  jealousy  of  Othello  would  be  relieved  by  the  New 


124  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.        [McMASTBR 

Federal  Bow- Wow,  in  which  the  singer  would  imitate  in 
succession  the  surly  dog,  the  knowing  dog,  the  king  dog, 
the  sitting  dog,  the  barking  dog,  till  pit  and  gallery  were 
convulsed  with  laughter.  Again  it  would  be  a  banjo  dance, 
or  a  hornpipe  by  some  actress  of  note.  If  "  Ca  ira"  were 
sung,  the  Federalists  would  not  be  quiet  till  Yankee  Doodle 
was  given,  whereupon  the  gallery  would  join  in  the  chorus. 
On  particular  occasions  the  programme  would  be  made  to 
suit  the  day.  On  the  twenty-second  of  February,  1797, 
the  Federal  Street  Theatre  at  Boston  made  a  great  display 
of  illuminations  and  transparencies,  covered  the  pit,  and 
spread  a  fine  supper  on  a  table  which  stretched  from  the 
boxes  to  the  stage.  The  Haymarket  Theatre,  not  to  be 
outdone,  decorated  its  walls,  had  an  ode  written  for  the  oc 
casion,  and  played  the  tragedy  of  "  Bunker  Hill."  A  few 
months  later,  when,  after  many  trials,  the  famous  ship 
Constitution  left  her  ways,  the  evening  performance  at  the 
Haymarket  closed  with  "  The  Launch,  or  Huzza  for  the 
Constitution,"  and  a  fine  representation  of  the  ship.  As 
much  as  three  thousand  dollars  are  known  to  have  been 
expended  on  the  scenery  of  a  single  piece.  The  income  of 
a  single  night  reached  sixteen  hundred  dollars.  .  .  . 

The  theatre  was  looked  upon,  and  justly,  as  an  insti 
tution  of  questionable  morality.  The  playhouse  was  not 
then  the  quiet  and  well-ordered  place  it  has  since  become. 
Both  actors  and  audience  took  liberties  that  would  now 
be  thought  intolerable.  On  one  occasion,  at  Alexandria, 
whither  a  company  always  went  in  racing- season,  some 
of  the  players  forgot  their  parts.  They  supplied  the 
omissions  with  lines  of  their  own  composition,  and  even 
went  so  far  as  to  recite  ribald  passages.  Thereupon  they 
were  threatened  with  a  pelting  of  oranges,  eggs,  and 
hard  apples.  At  another  time,  at  Richmond,  the  actors 
came  upon  the  stage  with  books  in  their  hands  and  read 


MCMASTER]  LIFE  IN  PHILADELPHIA   IN  1800.  125 

their  parts.  Some  ventured  to  appear  before  the  audi 
ence  in  a  state  of  gross  intoxication.  Much  of  the  illusion 
of  the  scenery,  it  was  said,  was  yet  further  destroyed  by 
the  voice  of  the  prompter,  which  could  be  heard  in  all 
parts  of  the  house.  From  Charleston  came  complaints 
of  the  misbehavior  of  the  young  men.  They  would  enter 
the  theatre  carrying  what  might  well  be  called  bludgeons, 
but  what  they  had  named  tippies,  would  keep  up  an  in 
cessant  rapping  on  the  seats,  and,  when  remonstrance  was 
made,  had  been  known  to  declare  that  a  theatre,  like  a 
tavern,  was  a  place  where  a  man,  having  paid  the  price  of 
admission,  was  free  to  do  as  he  liked.  One  evening  a  fight 
took  place  in  the  gallery.  The  play  was  instantly  stopped, 
the  offender  seized,  brought  upon  the  stage,  and  exposed 
to  public  view.  The  performance  then  went  smoothly  on, 
till  a  bottle  was  suddenly  flung  from  the  gallery  to  the 
pit.  This  was  too  much.  The  men  in  the  pit  went  up 
into  the  gallery  in  a  body,  laid  hold  on  the  culprit,  dragged 
him  on  the  stage,  and  demanded  that  a  public  apology 
should  be  made.  He  refused,  and  was  at  once  driven  from 
the  house. 

In  the  theatres  at  the  North  it  often  happened  that  the 
moment  a  well-dressed  man  entered  the  pit  he  at  once 
became  a  mark  for  the  wit  and  insolence  of  the  men  in 
the  gallery.  They  would  begin  by  calling  on  him  to  doff 
his  hat  in  mark  of  inferiority,  for  the  custom  of  wearing 
hats  in  the  theatre  was  universal.  If  he  obeyed,  he  was 
loudly  hissed  and  troubled  no  more.  If  he  refused,  abuse, 
oaths,  and  indecent  remarks  were  poured  out  upon  him. 
He  was  spit  at,  pelted  with  pears,  apples,  sticks,  stones, 
and  empty  bottles,  till  he  left  the  house.  As  "  the  blades 
in  the  gallery"  were  poor  marksmen,  the  neighbors  of  the 
man  aimed  at  were  the  chief  sufferers.  On  one  occasion 
the  orchestra  was  put  to  flight  and  some  instruments 
ii.  11* 


126  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

broken.  Then  the  manager  came  on  the  stage  and  begged 
"  the  men  in  the  gallery  to  be  quiet :  if  they  were  not,  he 
should  be  compelled  during  all  future  performances  to 
keep  the  gallery  shut."  .  .  . 

The  stage-coach  was  little  better  than  a  huge  covered 
box  mounted  on  springs.  It  had  neither  glass  windows, 
nor  door,  nor  steps,  nor  closed  sides.  The  roof  was  upheld 
by  eight  posts  which  rose  from  the  body  of  the  vehicle, 
and  the  body  was  commonly  breast-high.  From  the  top 
were  hung  curtains  of  leather,  to  be  drawn  up  when  the 
day  was  fine,  and  let  down  and  buttoned  when  rainy  and 
cold.  Within  were  four  seats.  Without  was  the  baggage. 
Fourteen  pounds  of  luggage  were  allowed  to  be  carried 
free  by  each  passenger.  But  if  his  portmanteau  or  his 
brass-nail-studded  hair  trunk  weighed  more,  he  paid  for  it 
at  the  same  rate  per  mile  as  he  paid  for  himself.  Under 
no  circumstances,  however,  could  he  be  permitted  to  take 
with  him  on  the  journey  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds.  When  the  baggage  had  all  been  weighed  and 
strapped  on  the  coach,  when  the  horses  had  been  attached 
and  the  way-bill  made  out,  the  eleven  passengers  were 
summoned,  and,  clambering  to  their  seats  through  the 
front  of  the  stage,  sat  down  with  their  faces  toward  the 
driver's  seat.  On  routes  where  no  competition  existed 
progress  was  slow,  and  the  travellers  were  subjected  to  all 
manner  of  extortion  and  abuse.  "  Brutality,  negligence, 
and  filching,"  says  one,  "are  as  naturally  expected  by 
people  accustomed  to  travelling  in  America  as  a  mouth, 
a  nose,  and  two  eyes  are  looked  for  in  a  man's  face." 
Another  set  out  one  day  in  March,  1796,  to  go  from 
Frenchtown  to  New  Castle,  on  the  Delaware.  Seventeen 
miles  separated  the  two  towns,  a  distance  which,  he  de 
clares,  a  good  healthy  man  could  have  passed  over  in  four 
hours  and  a  half.  The  stage-coach  took  six.  When  it 


McM ASTER]  LIFE  IN  PHILADELPHIA   IN  1800.  127 

finally  reached  New  Castle  it  was  high  noon,  the  tide  was 
making,  the  wind  was  fair,  and  the  boat  for  Philadelphia 
was  ready  at  the  wharf.  Yet  he  was  detained  for  an  hour 
and  a  half,  "  that  the  innkeeper  might  scrub  the  passengers 
out  of  the  price  of  a  dinner."  Dinner  over,  the  boat  set 
sail  and  ran  up  the  river  to  within  two  miles  of  Gloucester 
Point.  There,  wind  and  tide  failing,  the  vessel  dropped 
anchor  for  the  night.  Some  passengers,  anxious  to  go  on 
by  land,  were  forced  to  pay  half  a  dollar  each  to  be  rowed 
to  the  shore.  At  one  in  the  morning  the  tide  again  turned. 
But  the  master  was  then  drunk,  and,  when  he  could  be 
made  to  understand  what  was  said,  the  tide  was  again 
ebbing,  and  the  boat  aground.  Evening  came  before  the 
craft  reached  Philadelphia.  The  passengers  were  forty- 
eight  hours  on  board.  Another  came  from  New  York  by 
stage  and  by  water.  He  was  almost  shipwrecked  in  the 
bay,  lost  some  of  his  baggage  at  Amboy,  was  nearly  left 
by  the  coach,  and  passed  twenty  hours  going  sixteen  miles 
on  the  Delaware.  The  captain  was  drunk.  The  boat 
three  times  collided  with  vessels  coming  up  the  river.  A 
gentleman  set  out  in  February  to  make  the  trip  from 
Philadelphia  to  Baltimore.  Just  beyond  Havre  de  Grace 
the  axle  broke.  A  cart  was  hired  and  the  passengers 
driven  to  the  next  stage-inn.  There  a  new  coach  was 
obtained,  which,  in  the  evening,  overset  in  a  wood. 
Toward  daylight  the  whole  party,  in  the  midst  of  a 
shower  of  rain  and  snow,  found  shelter  and  breakfast  at  a 
miserable  house  three  miles  from  Baltimore.  But  the  host 
would  not  suffer  one  of  them  to  dry  his  clothes  by  the 
kitchen  stove.  When  an  editor  in  the  town  was  asked  to 
publish  an  account  of  their  trip  he  refused.  The  owners 
of  the  coach-line  might,  he  said,  hinder  the  circulation  of 
his  newspaper.  To  add  to  the  vexation  of  such  delays, 
"  the  Apostolic  Assembly  of  the  State  of  Delaware"  had 


128  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.        [McMxsTER 

forbidden  stage-coaches  to  cross  their  "  hand's-breadth  of 
territory"  on  the  Sabbath.  The  worst  bit  of  road  in  the 
country  seems  to  have  been  between  Elkton,  in  Maryland, 
and  the  Susquehanna  Ferry.  There  the  ruts  were  so  deep 
that,  as  the  wheels  were  about  to  enter  one,  the  driver 
would  call  upon  the  passengers  to  lean  out  of  the  opposite 
side  of  the  coach,  to  prevent  the  vehicle  being  overturned. 
"  Now,  gentlemen,"  he  would  say,  "  to  the  right."  "  Now, 
gentlemen,  to  the  left." 

Yet  another  traveller  had  quitted  Philadelphia  for  New 
York.  All  went  smoothly  till  the  coach  drew  near  to  the 
town  of  Brunswick.  There  one  of  a  rival  line  was  over 
taken,  and  a  race  begun.  At  Elizabethtown  a  young 
woman,  well  mounted,  rode  up  behind  the  coach  and  at 
tempted  to  pass.  In  an  instant  half  the  men  on  the  stage 
began  to  revile  her  most  shamefully,  raised  a  great  shout, 
frightened  her  horse,  and  all  but  unseated  her.  One, 
indeed,  ventured  to  expostulate.  But  he  was  quickly 
silenced  by  the  question,  "  What !  suffer  anybody  to  take 
the  road  of  us  ?"  At  New  York  three  of  the  passengers 
found  lodgings  in  a  single  room  at  an  inn.  The  custom 
was  a  general  one,  and  of  all  customs  was  the  most  offen 
sive  to  foreigners.  No  such  thing,  it  was  said,  was  ever 
seen  in  the  British  Isles.  There  every  decent  person  not 
only  had  a  bed,  but  even  a  room,  to  himself,  and,  if  he 
were  so  minded,  might  lock  his  door.  In  America,  how 
ever,  the  traveller  sat  down  at  the  table  of  his  landlord, 
slept  in  the  first  bed  he  found  empty,  or,  if  all  were  taken, 
lay  down  on  one  beside  its  occupant  without  so  much  as 
asking  leave  or  caring  who  the  sleeper  might  be.  If  he 
demanded  clean  sheets,  he  was  looked  upon  as  an  aristo 
crat,  and  charged  well  for  the  trouble  he  gave ;  for  the 
bedclothes  were  changed  at  stated  times,  and  not  to  suit 
the  whims  of  travellers. 


COZZENS]  SEEDS  AND  SWINE.  129 

SEEDS  AND  SWINE. 

FREDERICK  SPRAGUE  COZZENS. 

[From  the  "  Sparrowgrass  Papers"  of  F.  S.  Cozzens,  a  volume  in 
•which  shrewd  observations  on  life  in  the  country  are  mingled  with 
much  sprightly  humor,  we  extract  one  of  its  most  amusing  portions. 
The  author  was  a  native  of  New  York,  where  he  was  born  in  1818. 
He  died  in  1869.  His  writings  were  principally  contributed  to  the 
Knickerbocker  and  Putnam's  Magazines.  Several  volumes  of  his 
•works  in  prose  and  verse  have  been  published.] 

IT  is  a  good  thing  to  have  an  old-fashioned  fireplace 
in  the  country, — a  broad-breasted,  deep-chested  chimney- 
piece,  with  its  old-fashioned  fender,  its  old-fashioned  and 
irons,  its  old-fashioned  shovel  and  tongs,  and  a  goodly 
show  of  cherry-red  hickory,  in  a  glow,  with  its  volume 
of  blue  smoke  curling  up  the  thoracic  duct.  "  Ah,  Mrs. 
Sparrowgrass,  what  would  the  country  be  without  a  chim 
ney-corner  and  a  hearth  ?  Do  you  know,"  said  I,  "  the 
little  fairies  dance  upon  the  hearth-stone  when  an  heir  is 
born  in  a  house  ?"  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  said  she  did  not 
know  it,  but,  she  said,  she  wanted  me  to  stop  talking 
about  such  things.  "  And  the  cricket,"  said  I,  "  how 
cheerful  its  carol  on  the  approach  of  winter!"  Mrs.  S. 
said  the  sound  of  a  cricket  made  her  feel  melancholy. 
"  And  the  altar  and  the  hearth-stone ;  symbols  of  religion 
and  of  home !  Before  one  the  bride, — beside  the  other 
the  wife !  No  wonder,  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass,  they  are  sacred 
things, — that  mankind  have  ever  held  them  inviolable, 
and  preserved  them  from  sacrilege,  in  all  times,  and  in  all 
countries.  Do  you  know,"  said  I,  "  how  dear  this  hearth 
is  to  me?"  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  said,  with  hickory  wood 
at  eight  dollars  a  cord,  it  did  not  surprise  her  to  hear  me 


130  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [CozzEWs 

grumble.  "  If  wood  were  twenty  dollars  a  cord  I  would 
not  complain.  Here  we  have  everything, — 

1  content, 

Retirement,  rural  quiet,  friendship,  books, 
Ease  and  alternate  labor,  useful  life ;' 

and  as  I  sit  before  our  household  altar,"  said  I,  placing  my 
hand  upon  the  mantel,  "  with  you  beside  me,  Mrs.  S.,  I 
feel  that  all  the  beautiful  fables  of  poets  are  only  truths 
in  parables  when  they  relate  to  the  hearth-stone, — the 
heart-stone,  I  may  say,  of  home!" 

This  fine  sentiment  did  not  move  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  a 
whit.  She  said  she  was  sleepy.  After  all,  I  begin  to 
believe  sentiment  is  a  poor  thing  in  the  country.  It  does 
very  well  in  books  and  on  the  stage,  but  it  will  not  answer 
for  the  rural  districts.  The  country  is  too  genuine  and 
honest  for  it.  It  is  a  pretty  affectation,  only  fit  for  artifi 
cial  life.  Mrs.  Peppergrass  may  wear  it,  with  her  rouge 
and  diamonds,  in  a  drawing-room,  but  it  will  not  pass  cur 
rent  here,  any  more  than  the  simulated  flush  of  her  cheeks 
can  compare  with  that  painted  in  the  skin  of  a  rustic 
beauty  by  the  sun  and  air. 

"Mrs.  Sparrowgrass,"  said  I,  "let  us  have  some  nuts 
and  apples,  and  a  pitcher  of  Binghamton  cider :  we  have 
a  good  cheerful  fire  to-night,  and  why  should  we  not 
enjoy  it  ?" 

When  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  returned  from  giving  direc 
tions  about  the  fruit  and  cider,  she  brought  with  her  a 
square  paper  box  full  of  garden-seeds.  To  get  good  gar 
den-seeds  is  an  important  thing  in  the  country.  If  you 
depend  upon  an  agricultural  warehouse  you  may  be  dis 
appointed.  The  way  to  do  is,  to  select  the  best  specimens 
from  your  own  raising :  then  you  are  sure  they  are  fresh, 
At  least.  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  opened  the  box.  First  she 


COZZENS]  SEEDS  AND  SWINE.  131 

took  out  a  package  of  seeds  wrapped  up  in  a  newspaper ; 
then  she  took  out  another  package  tied  up  in  brown  paper  ; 
then  she  drew  forth  a  bundle  that  was  pinned  up, — then 
another  that  was  taped  up, — then  another  twisted  up; 
then  out  came  a  bursted  package  of  watermelon-seeds, — 
then  a  withered  ear  of  corn, — then  another  package  of 
watermelon-seeds  from  another  melon, — then  a  handful 
of  split  okra-pods, — then  handsful  of  beans,  peas,  squash - 
seeds,  melon-seeds,  cucumber-seeds,  sweet  corn,  evergreen 
corn,  and  other  germs.  Then  another  bursted  paper  of 
watermelon-seeds.  There  were  watermelon-seeds  enough 
to  keep  half  the  county  supplied  with  this  refreshing  arti 
cle  of  luxury.  As  the  treasures  were  spread  out  on  the 
table,  there  came  over  me  a  feeling  that  reminded  me  of 
Christmas  times,  when  the  young  ones  used  to  pant  down 
stairs,  before  dawn,  lamp  in  hand,  to  see  the  kindly  toy- 
gifts  of  Santa  Glaus.  Then  the  Mental  Gardener,  taking 
Anticipation  by  the  hand,  went  forth  into  the  future  gar 
den  :  peas  sprouted  out  in  round  leaves ;  tomato  put  forth 
his  aromatic  spread ;  sweet  corn  thrust  his  green  blades 
out  of  many  a  hillock ;  lettuce  threw  up  his  slender 
spoons ;  beans  shouldered  their  way  into  the  world,  like 
Mi} eases,  with  the  old  beans  on  their  backs ;  and  water 
melon  and  cucumber,  in  voluptuous  play,  sported  over  the 
beds  like  truant  school-boys. 

"  Here  are  sweet  peas,  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight, 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things, 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings." 

"  Now,"  said  I,  "  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass,  let  us  arrange  these 
in  proper  order :  I  will  make  a  chart  of  the  garden  on  a 
piece  of  paper,  and  put  everything  down  with  a  date,  to  be 
planted  in  its  proper  time."  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  said  she 


Z32  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [CozzENs 

thought  that  an  excellent  plan.  "  Yes,"  I  replied,  tasting 
the  cider,  "  we  will  make  a  garden  to-night  on  paper,  a 
ground-plan,  as  it  were,  and  plant  from  that.  Now,  Mrs. 
S.,  read  off  the  different  packages." 

Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  took  up  a  paper,  and  laid  it  aside, 
and  then  another,  and  laid  it  aside.  "  I  think,"  said  she, 
as  the  third  paper  was  placed  upon  the  table,  "  I  did  not 
write  any  names  on  tho  seeds;  but  I  believe  I  can  tell 
them  apart.  These,"  said  she,  "  are  watermelon."  "  Very 
well ;  what  next  ?"  "  The  next,"  said  Mrs.  S.,  "  is  either 
muskmelon-  or  cucumber-seed."  "  My  dear,"  said  I,  "  we 
want  plenty  of  melons,  for  the  summer,  but  I  do  not  wish 
to  plant  half  an  acre  of  pickles  by  mistake :  can't  you  be 
sure  about  the  matter?"  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  said  she 
could  not.  "  Well,  then,  lay  the  paper  down  and  call  off 
the  next."  "  The  next  are  not  radishes,  I  know,"  said 
Mrs.  S. ;  "they  must  be  summer  cabbages."  "Are  you 
sure  now,  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass?"  said  I,  getting  a  little 
out  of  temper.  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  said  she  was  sure  of 
it,  because  cabbage-seed  looked  exactly  like  turnip-seed. 
"  Did  you  save  turnip-seed  also  ?"  said  I.  Mrs.  Sparrow 
grass  replied  that  she  had  provided  some,  but  they  must 
be  in  another  paper.  "  Then  call  off  the  next :  we  will 
plant  them  for  cabbages,  whether  or  no."  "  Here  is  a 
name,"  said  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass,  brightening  up.  "Read 
it,"  said  I,  pen  in  hand.  "  Watermelons, — not  so  good," 
said  Mrs.  S.  "  Lay  that  paper  with  the  rest,  and  proceed/' 
"  Corn,"  said  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass,  with  a  smile.  "  Variety  ?:> 
"  Pop,  I  am  sure."  "  Good !  now  we  begin  to  see  daylight." 
"  Squash,"  said  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass.  "  Winter  or  summer  ?" 
"  Both."  "  Lay  that  paper  aside,  my  dear."  •'  Tomato." 
"  Red  or  yellow  ?"  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  said  she  had  pinned 
up  the  one  and  tied  up  the  other,  to  distinguish  them,  but 
it  was  so  long  ago  she  had  forgot  which  was  which. 


COZZENS]  SEEDS  AND  SWINE.  133 

"  Never  mind,"  said  I :  "  there  is  one  comfort ;  they  can 
not  bear  without  showing  their  colors.  Now  for  the 
next."  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  said,  upon  tasting  the  tomato- 
seed,  she  was  sure  they  were  bell-peppers.  "  Very  well ; 
BO  much  is  gained :  we  are  sure  of  the  capsicum.  The 
next."  "  Beans,"  said  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass. 

There  is  one  kind  of  bean  in  regard  to  which  I  have  a 
prejudice.  I  allude  to  the  asparagus  bean,  a  sort  of  long- 
winded  esculent,  inclined  to  be  prolific  in  strings.  It  does 
not  climb  very  high  on  the  pole,  but  crops  out  in  an  abun 
dance  of  pods,  usually  not  shorter  than  a  bill  of  extras 
after  a  contract,  and,  although  interesting  as  a  curious 
vegetable,  still  not  exactly  the  bean  to  be  highly  com 
mended  by  your  city  guests  when  served  up  to  them  at 
table.  When  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass,  in  answer  to  my  question 
as  to  the  particular  species  of  bean  referred  to,  answered, 
"  Limas,"  I  felt  relief  at  once.  "  Put  the  Limas  to  the 
right  with  the  sheep,  Mrs.  S. ;  and  as  for  the  rest  of  the 
seeds,  sweep  them  into  the  refuse-basket.  I  will  add 
another  stick  to  the  fire,  pare  an  apple  for  you  and  an 
apple  for  me,  light  a  cigar,  and  be  comfortable.  What  is 
the  use  of  fretting  about  a  few  seeds  more  or  less  ?  But 
next  year  we  will  mark  all  the  packages  with  names,  to 
prevent  mistakes;  won't  we,  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass?" 

There  has  been  a  great  change  in  the  atmosphere  within 
a  few  days.  The  maple  twigs  are  all  scarlet  and  yellow 
fringes ;  the  sod  is  verdurous  and  moist ;  in  the  morning 
a  shower  of  melody  falls  from  the  trees  around  us,  where 
bluebirds  and  "  pewees"  are  keeping  an  academy  of  music. 
Off  on  the  river  there  is  a  long  perspective  of  shad-poles, 
apparently  stretching  from  shore  to  shore,  and  here  and 
there  a  boat,  with  picturesque  fishermen  at  work  over  the 
gill-nets.  Now  and  then  a  shad  is  held  up  ;  in  the  distance 
it  has  a  starlight  glitter  against  the  early  morning  sun. 
n.  12 


134  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [COZZENS 

The  fruit-trees  are  bronzed  with  buds.  Occasionally  a 
feeble  fly  creeps  along,  like  a  valetudinarian  too  early 
in  the  season  at  a  watering-place.  The  marshes  are  all 
a-whistle  with  dissipated  bull-frogs,  who  keep  up  their 
revelry  at  unseemly  hours.  Our  great  Polander  is  in 
high  cluck,  and  we  find  eggs  in  the  hens'  nests.  It  is 
SPRING  !  It  is  a  good  thing  to  have  spring  in  the  country. 
People  grow  young  again  in  the  spring  in  the  country. 
The  world,  the  old  globe  itself,  grows  young  in  the  spring, 
and  why  not  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  ?  The  city,  in 
the  spring,  is  like  the  apples  of  Sodom,  "fair  and  pleasant 
to  behold,  but  dust  and  ashes  within."  But  who  shall 
sing  or  say  what  spring  is  in  the  country  ? 

"  To  what  shall  I  compare  it? 
It  has  a  glory,  and  naught  else  can  share  it : 
The  thought  thereof  is  awful,  sweet,  and  holy, 
Chasing  away  all  worldliness  and  folly." 

"  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass,"  said  I,  "  the  weather  is  beginning 
to  be  very  warm  and  spring-like ;  how  would  you  like  to 
have  a  little  festaf"  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass  said  that,  in  her 
present  frame  of  mind,  a  fester  was  not  necessary  for  her 
happiness.  I  replied,  "I  meant  a  festa,  not  a  fester;  a 
little  fete,  a  few  friends,  a  few  flowers,  a  mild  sort  of  spring 
dinner,  if  you  please;  some  music,  claret,  fresh  lettuce, 
lamb  and  spinach,-  and  a  breakfast  of  eggs  fresh  laid  in 
the  morning,  with  rice-cakes  and  coffee."  Mrs.  Sparrow 
grass  said  she  was  willing.  "  Then,"  said  I,  "  Mrs.  S.,  I 
will  invite  a  few  old  friends,  and  we  will  have  an  elegant 
time."  So,  from  that  day  we  watched  the  sky  very 
closely  for  a  week,  to  ascertain  the  probable  course  of  the 
clouds,  and  consulted  the  thermometer  to  know  what 
chance  there  was  of  having  open  windows  for  the  occa 
sion.  The  only  drawback  that  stood  in  the  way  of  per- 


COZZENS]  SEEDS  AND  SWINE.  135 

feet  enjoyment  was,  our  lawn  bad  been  balf  rooted  out 
of  existence  by  an  irruption  of  predatory  pigs.  It  was 
vexatious  enough  to  see  our  lawn  bottom-side  up  on  a 
festive  occasion.  But  I  determined  to  have  redress  for  it. 
Upon  consulting  with  the  best  legal  authority  in  the  vil 
lage,  I  was  told  that  I  could  obtain  damages  by  identify 
ing  the  animals  and  commencing  suit  against  the  owners. 
As  I  had  not  seen  the  animals,  I  asked  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass 
if  she  could  identify  them.  She  said  she  could  not. 
"  Then,"  said  I  to  my  legal  friend,  "  what  can  I  do  ?"  He 
replied  that  he  did  not  know.  "  Then,"  said  I,  "  if  they 
come  again,  and  I  catch  them  in  the  act,  can  I  fire  a  gun 
among  them?"  He  said  I  could,  but  that  I  would  be 
liable  for  whatever  damage  was  done  them.  "  That,"  said 
I,  "  would  not  answer :  my  object  is  to  make  the  owner 
suffer,  not  the  poor  quadrupeds."  He  replied  that  the  only 
sufferers  would  probably  be  the  pigs  and  myself.  Then  I 
asked  him,  if  the  owner  recovered  against  me,  whether  I 
could  bring  a  replevin  suit  against  him.  He  said  that, 
under  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  such  a  suit 
could  be  brought.  I  asked  him  if  I  could  recover.  He 
said  I  could  not.  Then  I  asked  him  what  remedy  I  could 
have.  He  answered  that  if  I  found  the  pigs  on  my  grounds 
I  could  drive  them  to  the  pound,  then  call  upon  the  fence- 
viewers,  get  them  to  assess  the  damages  done,  and  by  this 
means  mulct  the  owner  for  the  trespass.  This  advice 
pleased  me  highly :  it  was  practical  and  humane.  I  de 
termined  to  act  upon  it,  and  slept  soundly  upon  the  reso 
lution.  The  next  day  our  guests  came  up  from  town.  I 
explained  the  lawn  to  them,  and,  having  been  fortified  on 
legal  points,  instructed  them  as  to  the  remedy  for  tres 
pass.  The  day  was  warm  and  beautiful ;  our  doors  and 
windows  were  thrown  wide  open.  By  way  of  offset  to  the 
appearance  of  the  lawn,  I  had  contrived,  by  purchasing 


136  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

an  expensive  little  bijou  of  a  vase  and  filling  it  with  sweet- 
breathing  flowers,  to  spread  a  rural  air  of  fragrance 
throughout  the  parlor.  The  doors  of  the  bay-window 
open  on  the  piazza  ;  in  one  door-way  stood  a  tray  of  deli 
cate  confections,  upon  two  slender  quartette-tables.  These 
were  put  in  the  shade  to  keep  cool.  I  had  suborned  an 
Italian  to  bring  them  up  by  hand,  in  pristine  sharpness 
and  beauty  of  outline.  I  was  taking  a  glass  of  sherry 
with  our  old  friend  Captain  Bacon,  of  the  U.  S.  Navy, 
when  suddenly  our  dogs  commenced  barking.  We  keep 
our  dogs  chained  up  by  daylight.  Looking  over  my  glass 
of  sherry,  I  observed  a  detachment  of  the  most  villanous- 
looking  pigs  rooting  up  my  early-pea-patch.  "  Now,"  said 
I.  "  captain,"  putting  down  my  glass  deliberately,  "  I  will 
show  you  some  fun ;  excuse  me  for  a  few  minutes ;"  and 
with  that  I  bowed  significantly  to  our  festal  guests.  They 
understood  at  once  that  etiquette  must  give  way  when 
pea-patch  was  about  being  annihilated.  I  then  went  out, 
unchained  the  dogs,  and  commenced  driving  the  pigs  out 
of  the  garden.  After  considerable  trampling  of  all  my 
early  vegetables,  under  the  eyes  of  my  guests,  I  managed 
to  get  the  ringleader  of  the  swinish  multitude  into  my 
parlor.  He  was  a  large,  powerful-looking  fellow,  with  a 
great  deal  of  comb,  long  legs,  mottled  complexion,  and 
ears  pretty  well  dogged.  He  stood  for  a  moment  at  bay 
against  the  sofa,  then  charged  upon  the  dogs,  ran  against 
the  centre-table,  which  he  accidentally  upset,  got  headed 
off  by  Captain  Bacon,  who  came  to  the  rescue,  darted 
under  our  quartette-tables, — making  a  general  distribu 
tion  of  confectionery, — and  finally  got  cornered  in  the 
piazza. 

By  this  time  I  was  so  much  exasperated  that  I  was 
capable  of  taking  the  life  of  the  intruder,  and  probably 
should  have  done  so  had  my  gun  not  been  at  the  gun- 


COZZENS]  SEEDS  AND  SWINE.  137 

smith's.  In  striking  at  him  with  a  stick,  I  accidentally  hit 
one  of  the  dogs  such  a  blow  as  to  disable  him.  But  I  was 
determined  to  capture  the  destroyer  and  put  him  in  the 
pound.  After  some  difficulty  in  getting  him  out  of  the 
piazza,  I  drove  him  into  the  library  and  finally  out  in  the 
ground.  The  rest  of  his  confederates  were  there,  quietly 
feeding  on  the  remains  of  the  garden.  Finally  I  found 
myself  on  the  hot  high-road,  with  all  my  captives  and  one 
dog,  in  search  of  the  pound.  Not  knowing  where  the 
pound  was,  after  driving  them  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  I 
made  inquiry  of  a  respectable-looking  man,  whom  I  met, 
In  corduroy  breeches,  on  the  road.  He  informed  me  that 
he  did  not  know.  I  then  fell  in  with  a  colored  boy,  who 
told  me  the  only  pound  was  at  Dobb's  Ferry.  Dobb's 
Ferry  is  a  thriving  village  about  seven  miles  north  of  the 
Nepperhan.  I  made  a  bargain  with  the  colored  boy  for 
three  dollars,  and  by  his  assistance  the  animals  were  safely 
lodged  in  the  pound.  By  this  means  I  was  enabled  to  re 
turn  to  my  guests.  Next  day  I  found  out  the  owner.  I 
got  the  fence-viewers  to  estimate  the  damages. 

The  fence-viewers  looked  at  the  broken  mahogany  and 
estimated.  I  spoke  of  the  vase,  the  flowers  (green-house 
flowers),  and  the  confectionery.  These  did  not  appear  to 
strike  them  as  damageable.  I  think  the  fence-viewers 
are  not  liberal  enough  in  their  views.  The  damages  done 
to  a  man's  temper  and  constitution  shall  be  included,  if 
ever  I  get  to  be  fence-viewer ;  to  say  nothing  of  exotica 
trampled  under  foot,  and  a  beautiful  dessert  ruthlessly 
destroyed  by  unclean  animals.  Besides  that,  we  shall 
not  have  a  pea  until  everybody  else  in  the  village  has 
done  with  peas.  We  shall  be  late  in  the  season  with  our 
early  peas.  At  last  an  advertisement  appeared  in  the 
county  paper,  which  contained  the  decision  of  the  fence- 
viewers,  to  wit  : 

ii.  12* 


138  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [CozzENa 

WEST-CHESTER  COUNT r, ) 

>  ss. 

TOWN   OF   YONKERS.      J 

WE,  THE  SUBSCRIBERS,  FENCE-VIEWERS  of  said  town,  having  been 
applied  to  by  Samson  Sparrowgrass,  of  said  town,  to  appraise  the  dam 
ages  done  by  nine  hogs,  five  wintered  (four  spotted  and  one  white) 
and  four  spring  pigs  (two  white),  distrained  by  him  doing  damage  on 
his  lands,  and  having  been  to  the  place,  and  viewed  and  ascertained 
the  damages,  do  hereby  certify  the  amount  thereof  to  be  three  dollars, 
and  that  the  fees  for  our  services  are  two  dollars.  Given  under  our 
hands,  this  day  of  ,  185-. 

DANIEL  MALMSEY,  1  Fence-viewers 

PETER  ASSMANSHAUSER,  J 
The  above  hogs  are  in  the  Pound  at  Dobb's  Ferry. 

CORNELIUS  CORKWOOD,  Pound-Master. 

"  Under  the  circumstances,"  said  I,  "  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass. 
what  do  you  think  of  the  pound  as  a  legal  remedy  ?"  Mrs. 
S.  said  it  was  shameful.  "  So  I  think,  too ;  but  why  should 
we  repine  ?  The  birds  sing,  the  sky  is  blue,  the  grass  is 
green  side  up,  the  trees  are  full  of  leaves,  the  air  is  balmy, 
and  the  children,  God  bless  them  1  are  happy.  Why  should 
we  repine  about  trifles  ?  If  we  want  early  peas  we  can 
buy  them ;  and  as  for  the  vase,  flowers,  and  confectionery, 
they  would  have  been  all  over  with  by  this  time  if  the 
pigs  had  not  been  here.  There  is  no  use  to  cry,  like 
Alexander,  for  another  world:  let  us  enjoy  the  one  we 
have,  Mrs.  Sparrowgrass." 


AMONG  THE  LAURELS. 

ELIZABETH  AKERS   ALLEN. 

[The  poetess  from  whom  we  select  the  following  thoughtful  and 
gracefully-written  poem  is  best  known  under  her  pseudonyme  of 
"  Florence  Percy,"  and  as  the  author  of  the  favorite  poem,  "  liock  me 


ALLEN]  AMONG   THE  LAURELS.  139 

to  Sleep,  Mother."  She  was  born  at  Strong,  Maine,  in  1832,  and  was 
first  married  to  Mr.  Paul  Alters,  the  sculptor,  and  afterwards  to  Mr. 
E.  M.  Allen,  of  New  York.] 

The  sunset's  gorgeous  dyes 

Paled  slowly  from  the  skies, 
And  the  clear  heaven  was  waiting  for  the  stars, 

As  side  by  side  we  strayed 

Along  a  sylvan  glade, 
And  found  our  pathway  crossed  by  rustic  bars. 

Beyond  the  barrier  lay 

A  green  and  tempting  way, 
Arched  with  fair  laurel-trees,  a-bloom  and  tall, 

Their  cups  of  tender  snow 

Edged  with  a  rosy  glow, 
And  warm,  sweet  shadows  trembling  over  all. 

The  chestnuts  sung  and  sighed, 

The  solemn  oaks  replied, 
And  distant  pine-trees  crooned  in  cradling  tones  j 

While  music  low  and  clear 

Gushed  from  the  darkness  near, 
Where  a  shy  brook  went  tinkling  over  stones. 

Soft  mosses,  damp  and  sweet, 

Allured  our  waiting  feet, 

And  brambles  veiled  their  thorns  with  treacherous 
bloom ; 

While  tiny  flecks  of  flowers, 

Which  owned  no  name  of  ours, 
Added  their  mite  of  beauty  and  perfume. 

And  hark!  a  hidden  bird, 
To  sudden  utterance  stirred. 


140  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

As  by  a  wondrous  love  too  great  to  bear 
With  voiceless  silence  long, 
Burst  into  passionate  song, 

Filling  •with  his  sweet  trouble  all  the  air. 


Then  one,  whose  eager  soul 

Could  brook  no  small  control, 
Said,  "  Let  us  thread  this  pleasant  path,  dear  friend : 

If  thus  the  way  can  be 

So  beautiful  to  see, 
How  much  more  beautiful  must  be  the  end  I 

"  Follow !  this  solitude 

May  shrine  the  haunted  wood, 
Storied  so  sweetly  in  romance  and  rhyme, 

Secure  from  human  ill, 

And  rarely  peopled  still 
By  Fauns  and  Dryads  of  the  olden  time, — 

"  A  spot  of  hallowed  ground, 

By  mortal  yet  unfound, 
Sacred  to  nymph  and  sylvan  deity, 

Where  foiled  Apollo  glides, 

And  bashful  Daphne  hides 
Safe  in  the  shelter  of  her  laurel-tree  I" 


"  Forbear!"  the  other  cried  ; 

"  Oh,  leave  the  way  untried  I 
Those  joys  are  sweetest  which  we  only  guess ; 

And  the  impatient  soul 

That  seeks  to  grasp  the  whole 
Defeats  itself  by  its  own  eagerness. 


ALLEN]  AMONG  THE  LAURELS.  141 

"  Let  us  not  rudely  shake 

The  dew-drop  from  the  brake 
Fringing  the  borders  of  this  haunted  dell : 

All  the  delights  which  are— 

The  present  and  the  far — 
Lose  half  their  charm  by  being  known  too  well ! 

"  And  he  mistakes  who  tries 

To  search  all  mysteries, — 
Who  leaves  no  cup  undrained,  no  path  untracked : 

Who  seeks  to  know  too  much 

Brushes  with  ruthless  touch 
The  bloom  of  Fancy  from  the  brier  of  Fact. 

"  Keep  one  fair  myth  aloof 

From  hard  and  actual  proof, — 
Preserve  some  dear  delusions  as  they  seem ; 

Since  the  reality, 

How  bright  soe'er  it  be, 
Shows  dull  and  tame  beside  our  marvellous  dream. 

"  Leave  this  white  page  unscored, 

This  rare  realm  unexplored, 
And  let  dear  Fancy  roam  there  as  she  will : 

Whatever  page  we  turn, 

However  much  we  learn, 
Let  there  be  something  left  to  dream  of  still  I" 

Wherefore,  for  aught  we  know, 

The  golden  apples  grow 
In  the  green  vale  to  which  that  pathway  leads, 

The  spirits  of  the  wood 

Still  haunt  its  solitude, 
And  Pan  sits  piping  there  among  the  reeds  ! 


142  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.       [TucKiRMAi. 

AUTHOR-WORSHIP. 

HENRY  THEODORE  TUCKERMAN. 

[The  author  here  named  was  born  in  Boston  in  1813.  He  died  in 
1871.  His  literary  work  was  mainly  of  a  critical  character,  and  was 
marked  by  fine  discernment  and  much  delicacy  of  appreciation.  In 
art-criticism  he  occupied  a  high  rank,  his  works  in  this  field  being 
"Artist  Life,  or  Sketches  of  American  Painters,"  and  "Book  of  the 
Artists."  He  also  wrote  "  Thoughts  on  the  Poets,"  "  Characteristics 
of  Literature,"  "  Biographical  Essays,"  etc.  The  selection  given 
below  probably  repeats  the  experience  of  many  college  students  of 
literature.] 

"  High  is  our  calling,  friend  1    Creative  Art, 
Whether  the  instrument  of  words  she  use, 
Or  pencil  pregnant  with  ethereal  hues, 
Demands  the  service  of  a  mind  and  heart, 
Though  sensitive,  yet  in  their  weakest  part 
Heroically  fashioned, — to  infuse 
Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  muse, 
While  the  whole  world  seems  adverse  to  desert." 

WORDSWORTH. 

SOME  of  the  fondest  illusions  of  our  student  life  and 
companionship  were  based  on  literary  fame.  The  only 
individuals  of  the  male  gender  who  then  seemed  to  us 
(indiscriminate  and  mutual  lovers  of  literature)  worthy 
of  admiration  and  sympathy  were  authors.  Our  ideal  of 
felicity  was  the  consciousness  of  distributing  ideas  of  vital 
significance  and  causing  multitudes  to  share  a  sentiment 
born  in  a  lonely  heart.  The  most  real  and  permanent 
sway  of  which  man  is  capable  we  imagined  that  of  ruling 
and  cheering  the  minds  of  others  through  the  medium  of 
literature.  Our  herbals  were  made  up  of  flowers  from  the 
graves  of  authors ;  their  signatures  were  our  only  auto 
graphs.  The  visions  that  haunted  us  were  little  else  than 
a  boundless  panorama  that  displayed  scenes  in  their  lives. 
We  used  continually  to  see,  in  fancy,  Petrarch  beside  a 


TTTCKERMAN]  A  UTHOR-  WORSHIP.  143 

fountain,  under  a  laurel,  with  the  sweet  penseroso  look 
visible  in  his  portraits ;  Dante  in  the  corridor  of  a  monas 
tery,  his  palm  laid  on  a  friar's  breast,  and  his  stern  feat 
ures  softened  as  he  craved  the  only  blessing  life  retained 
for  him, — peace;  rustic  Burns,  with  his  dark  eye  proudly 
meeting  the  curious  stare  of  an  Edinburgh  coterie;  Ca- 
moens  breasting  the  waves  with  the  Lusiad  between  his 
teeth ;  Johnson  appalling  Bos  well  with  his  emphatic  "  Sir;" 
Milton — his  head  like  that  of  a  saint  encircled  with  rays 
— seated  at  the  organ ;  Shakespeare  walking  serenely, 
and  with  a  benign  and  majestic  countenance,  beside  the 
Avon;  Steele  jocosely  presiding  at  table  with  liveried 
bailiffs  to  pass  the  dishes ;  the  bright  face  of  Pope  loom 
ing  up  from  his  deformed  body  in  the  cool  twilight  of  a 
grotto ;  Yoltaire's  sneer  withering  an  auditor  through  a 
cloud  of  snuff;  Moliere  reading  his  new  comedy  to  the 
old  woman ;  Landor  standing  in  the  ilex  path  of  a  Tuscan 
villa ;  Savage  asleep  on  a  bulk  at  midnight  in  one  of  the 
London  parks ;  Dryden  seated  in  oracular  dignity  in  his 
coffee-house  arm-chair ;  Metastasio  comparing  notes  with  a 
handsome  prima  donna  at  Yienna ;  Alfieri  with  a  magnifi 
cent  steed  in  the  midst  of  the  Alps ;  Swift  stealing  an  in 
terview  with  Miss  Johnson,  or  chuckling  over  a  chapter 
of  Gulliver;  the  funeral  pyre  of  Shelley  lighting  up  a 
solitary  crag  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean;  and 
Byron,  with  marble  brow  and  rolling  eye,  guiding  the 
helm  of  a  storm-tossed  boat  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva! 
Such  were  a  few  only  of  the  tableaux  that  haunted  our 
imaginations.  We  echoed  heartily  Akenside's  protest 
against  the  sermon  on  Glory : 

<c  Come,  then,  tell  me,  sage  divine, 

Is  it  an  oflence  to  own 
That  our  bosoms  e'er  incline 
Towards  immortal  Glory's  throne? 


144  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.      [TUOKERMAN 

For  with  me  nor  pomp  nor  pleasure, 
Bourbon's  might,  Braganza's  treasure, 
So  can  fancy's  dream  rejoice, 
So  conciliate  reason's  choice, 
As  one  approving  word  of  her  impartial  voice. 

"  If  to  spurn  at  noble  praise 

Be  the  passport  to  thy  heaven, 
Follow  thou  those  gloomy  ways ; 
No  such  law  to  me  was  given ; 
Nor,  I  trust,  shall  I  deplore  me, 
Faring  like  my  friends  before  me ; 
Nor  a  holier  place  desire 
Than  Timoleon's  arms  acquire, 
And  Tully's  curule  chair,  and  Milton's  golden  lyre." 

In  our  passion  for  native  authors  we  revered  the  mem 
ory  of  Brockden  Brown,  and  detected  in  his  romantic 
studies  the  germs  of  the  supernatural  school  of  fiction ; 
we  nearly  suffocated  ourselves  in  the  crowded  gallery  of 
the  old  church  at  Cambridge,  listening  to  Sprague's  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  poem  ;  and  often  watched  the  spiritual  figure 
of  the  "  Idle  Man,"  and  gazed  on  the  white  locks  of  our 
venerable  painter,  with  his  "  Monaldi"  and  "  Paint  King" 
vividly  remembered.  We  wearied  an  old  friend  of  Brain- 
ard's  by  making  him  repeat  anecdotes  of  the  poet,  and 
have  spent  hours  in  the  French  coffee-house  which  Halleck 
once  frequented,  eliciting  from  him  criticisms,  anecdotes, 
or  recitations  of  Campbell.  New  Haven  people  that  came 
in  our  way  were  obliged  to  tell  all  they  could  remember  of 
the  vagaries  of  Percival  and  the  elegant  hospitality  of  Hill- 
house.  We  have  followed  Judge  Hopkinson  through  the 
rectangular  streets  of  his  native  metropolis,  with  the  tune 
of  "  Hail  Columbia"  humming  in  our  ears,  and  kept  a 
curious  eye  on  Howard  Payne  through  a  whole  evening 
party,  fondly  cognizant  of  "Sweet  Home."  Beaumont 


TUCKERMAN]  AUTHOR-WORSHIP.  145 

and  Fletcher  were  our  Damon  and  Pythias.  The  mem 
orable  occurrence  of  our  childhood  was  the  advent  of  a 
new  Waverley  novel,  and  of  our  youth  a  fresh  Edinburgh 
Review.  "We  loved  plum  color,  because  poor  Goldy  was 
vain  of  his  coat  of  that  hue,  and  champagne,  partly  be 
cause  Schiller  used  to  drink  it  when  writing;  we  saved 
orange-peel  because  the  author  of  the  "  Rambler"  liked  it, 
and  put  ourselves  on  a  course  of  tar- water,  in  imitation  of 
Berkeley.  Roast  pig  had  a  double  relish  for  us  after  we 
had  read  Elia's  dissertation  thereon.  We  associated  gold 
fish  and  china  jars  with  Gray,  skulls  with  Dr.  Young,  the 
leap  of  a  sturgeon  in  the  Hudson  with  Drake's  "  Culprit 
Fay,"  pine-trees  with  Ossian,  stained-glass  windows  with 
Keats  (who  set  one  in  an  immortal  verse),  fortifications 
with  Uncle  Toby,  literary  breakfasts  with  Rogers,  water 
fowl  with  Bryant,  foundlings  with  Rousseau,  letter- writing 
with  Madame  de  Sevigne,  bread-and-butter  with  the  author 
of  Werther,  daisies  with  Burns,  and  primroses  with  Words 
worth.  Mrs.  Thrale's  acceptance  of  Piozzi  was  a  serious 
trouble  to  our  minds ;  and  whether  "  little  Burney"  would 
be  happy  after  her  marriage  with  the  noble  emigre  was 
a  problem  that  made  us  really  anxious  until  the  second 
part  of  her  Diary  was  procurable  and  relieved  our  solici 
tude.  An  unpatriotic  antipathy  to  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 
was  quelled  by  the  melodious  pa3an  of  Mrs.  Hemans; 
and  we  kept  vigils  before  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Norton,  at 
an  artist's  studio,  with  a  chivalric  desire  to  avenge  her 
w  rongs. 

ii.— o       *  13 


146  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [EDWARDS 

RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE. 

JONATHAN  EDWARDS. 

[It  is  a  somewhat  surprising  fact  that  America  should  produce,  in 
its  pioneer  days,  a  metaphysical  thinker  who  for  logical  power  and 
mental  ability  has  never  heen  surpassed  in  this  country,  if  in  the  world. 
Such  a  thinker  was  Jonathan  Edwards,  born  at  "Windsor,  Connecticut, 
October  5,  1703.  His  celebrated  work  on  "  The  Freedom  of  the  Will" 
exhibits  a  subtilty  of  thought  and  an  exhaustive  accuracy  of  reasoning 
which  no  philosophical  logician  has  ever  exceeded.  His  doctrine  that 
the  principle  of  necessity  is  compatible  with  freedom  of  the  will  and 
with  human  responsibility  is  worked  out  with  the  closest  and  inost 
searching  logic,  and  proves  its  point  as  clearly  as  anything  can  be 
proved  which  depends  upon  an  ideal  conception  as  its  basis.  We  select 
a  short  passage  from  this  notable  argument,  together  with  some  extracts 
which  show  the  unusual  precocity  of  Edwards  as  a  thinker.  He  began 
to  study  Latin  at  six,  was  writing  philosophical  essays  at  ten,  and  is 
said  to  have  completely  reasoned  out  his  doctrine  of  the  freedom  of  the 
will  at  seventeen  years  of  age.  The  passage  on  his  religious  feelings 
was  written  before  his  seventeenth  year,  and  his  remarkable  series  of 
[Resolutions,  seventy  in  number,  of  which  we  give  but  a  portion,  were 
written  before  he  was  twenty  years  old.  He  died  in  1758.] 

NOT  long  after  I  first  began  to  experience  these  things 
[namely,  new  apprehensions  and  ideas  of  Christ,  of  the 
work  of  redemption,  and  of  the  way  of  salvation  by  him], 
I  gave  an  account  to  my  father  of  some  things  that  had 
passed  in  my  mind.  I  was  pretty  much  affected  by  the 
discourse  we  had  together ;  and,  when  the  discourse  was 
ended,  I  walked  abroad  alone,  in  a  solitary  place  in  my 
father's  pasture,  for  contemplation.  And  as  I  was  walk 
ing  there,  and  looking  upon  the  sky  and  clouds,  there 
came  into  my  mind  so  sweet  a  sense  of  the  glorious  majesty 
and  grace  of  God,  as  I  know  not  how  to  express.  I  seemed 
to  see  them  both  in  a  sweet  conjunction ;  majesty  and 


EDWARDS]  RESOLUTIONS.  117 

meekness  joined  together.  It  was  a  sweet,  and  gentle, 
and  holy  majesty;  and  also  a  majestic  meekness;  aii  awful 
sweetness ;  a  high,  and  great,  and  holy  gentleness. 

After  this  my  sense  of  divine  things  gradually  increased, 
and  became  more  and  more  lively,  and  had  more  of  that 
inward  sweetness.  The  appearance  of  everything  was 
altered ;  there  seemed  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  calm,  sweet  cast 
or  appearance  of  divine  glory  in  almost  everything.  God's 
excellency,  his  wisdom,  his  purity,  and  love,  seemed  to 
appear  in  everything;  in  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars ;  in  the 
clouds  and  blue  sky ;  in  the  grass,  flowers,  trees ;  in  the 
water  and  all  nature ;  which  used  greatly  to  fix  my  mind. 
I  often  used  to  sit  and  view  the  moon  for  a  long  time ;  and, 
in  the  day,  spent  much  time  in  viewing  the  clouds  and 
sky,  to  behold  the  sweet  glory  of  God  in  these  things ;  in 
the  mean  time  singing  forth,  with  a  low  voice,  my  con 
templations  of  the  Creator  and  Eedeemer.  And  scarce 
anything,  among  all  the  works  of  nature,  was  so  sweet  to 
me  as  thunder  and  lightning  :  formerly  nothing  had  been 
so  terrible  to  me.  Before,  I  used  to  be  uncommonly  ter 
rified  with  thunder,  and  to  be  struck  with  terror  when  I 
saw  a  thunder-storm  rising;  but  now,  on  the  contrary,  it 
rejoiced  me.  I  felt  God,  if  I  may  so  speak,  at  the  first  ap 
pearance  of  a  thunder-storm,  and  used  to  take  the  oppor 
tunity,  at  such  times,  to  fix  myself  in  order  to  view  the 
clouds,  and  see  the  lightnings  play,  and  hear  the  majestic 
and  awful  voice  of  God's  thunders,  which  oftentimes  was 
exceedingly  entertaining,  leading  me  to  sweet  contempla 
tions  of  my  great  and  glorious  God. 

RESOLUTIONS. 

1.  Resolved,  That  I  will  do  whatsoever  I  think  to  be 
most  to  the  glory  of  God  and  my  own  good,  profit,  and 
pleasure,  in  the  whole  of  my  duration,  without  any  con- 


148  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [EDWARDS 

sideration  of  the  time,  whether  now,  or  never  so  many 
myriads  of  ages  hence. 

2.  Resolved,  To  do  whatever  I  think  to  be  my  duty,  and 
most  for  the  good  and  advantage  of  mankind  in  general. 

3.  Resolved,  Never  to  lose  one  moment  of  time,  but  to 
improve  it  in  the  most  profitable  way  I  possibly  can. 

4.  Resolved.  To  live  with  all  my  might  while  I  do  live. 

5.  Resolved^  Never  to  do  anything  which  I  should  be 
afraid  to  do  if  it  were  the  last  hour  of  my  life. 

6.  Resolved^  To  be  endeavoring  to  find  out  fit  objects  of 
liberality  and  charity. 

7.  Resolved)  Never  to  do  anything  out  of  revenge. 

8.  Resolved)  Never  to  suffer  the  least  motions  of  anger 
towards  irrational  beings. 

9.  Resolved)  Never  to  speak  evil  of  any  one  so  that  it 
shall  tend  to  his  dishonor,  more  or  less,  upon  no  account 
except  for  some  real  good. 

10.  Resolved)  That  I  will  live  so  as  I  shall  wish  I  had 
done  when  I  come  to  die. 

11.  Resolved)  To  live  so,  at  all  times,  as  I  think  is  best 
in  my  most  devout  frames,  and  when  I  have  the  clearest 
notions  of  the  things  of  the  gospel  and  another  world. 

12.  Resolved)  To  maintain  the  strictest  temperance  in 
eating  and  drinking. 

13.  Resolved)  Never  to  do  anything  which,  if  I  should 
see  in  another,  I  should  count  a  just  occasion  to  despise 
him  for,  or  to  think  any  way  the  more  meanly  of  him. 

14.  Resolved)  To  study  the  Scriptures  so  steadily,  con- 
Btantly,  and  frequently,  as  that  I  may  find,  and  plainly 
perceive,  myself  to  grow  in  the  knowledge  of  the  same. 

15.  Resolved)  Never  to  count  that  a  prayer,  nor  to  let  that 
pass  as  a  prayer,  nor  that  as  a  petition  of  a  prayer,  which 
is  so  made  that  I  cannot  hope  that  God  will  answer  it ;  nor 
that  as  a  confession  which  I  cannot  hope  God  will  accept. 


EDWARDS  j  RESOLUTIONS.  145) 

16.  Resolved,  Never  to  say  anything  at  all  against  any 
body,  but  when  it  is  perfectly  agreeable  to  the  highest  de 
gree  of  Christian  honor,  and  of  love  to  mankind,  agreeable 
to  the  lowest  humility  and  sense  of  my  own  faults  and 
failings,  and  agreeable  to  the  golden  rule ;  often,  when  I 
have  said  anything  against  any  one,  to  bring  it  to,  and 
try  it  strictly  by,  the  test  of  this  resolution. 

17.  Resolved,  In  narrations,  never  to  speak  anything  but 
the  pure  and  simple  verity. 

18.  Resolved,  Never  to  speak  evil  of  any,  except  I  have 
Borne  particular  good  call  to  it. 

19.  Resolved,  To  inquire  every  night,  as  I  am  going  to 
bed,  wherein  I  have  been  negligent, — what  sin  I  have  com 
mitted, — and  wherein  I  have  denied  myself; — also,  at  the 
end  of  every  week,  month,  and  year. 

20.  Resolved,  Never  to  do  anything  of  which  I  so  much 
question  the  lawfulness,  as  that  I  intend,  at  the  same  time, 
to  consider  and  examine  afterwards  whether  it  be  lawful 
or  not ;  unless  I  as  much  question  the  lawfulness  of  the 
omission. 

21.  Resolved,  To  inquire  every  night,  before  I  go  to  bed, 
whether  I  have  acted  in  the  best  way  I  possibly  could, 
with  respect  to  eating  and  drinking. 

22.  Resolved,  Never  to  allow  the  least  measure  of  any 
fretting  or  uneasiness  at  my  father  or  mother.     Resolved, 
to  suffer  no  effects  of  it,  so  much  as  in  the  least  alteration 
of  speech,  or  motion  of  my  eye ;  and  to  be  especially  care 
ful  of  it  with  respect  to  any  of  our  family. 

23.  On  the  supposition  that  there  never  was  to  be  bui, 
one  individual  in  the  world,  at  any  one  time,  who  was 
properly  a  complete  Christian,  in  all  respects  of  a  right 
stamp,  having  Christianity  always  shining  in  its  true  lus 
tre,  and  appearing  excellent  and  lovely,  from  whatever 
part  and  under  whatever  character  viewed:  Resolved,  to 

ii.  13* 


150  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [EDWAKD3 

act  just  as  I  would  do  if  I  strove  with  all  my  might  to  be 
that  one,  who  should  live  in  my  time. 

THE   FREEDOM   OF   THE   WILL. 

if  the  Will,  which  we  find  governs  the  members  of  the 
body,  and  determines  their  motions,  does  also  govern 
itself,  and  determines  its  own  actions,  it  doubtless  deter 
mines  them  the  same  way,  even  by  antecedent  volitions. 
The  Will  determines  which  way  the  hands  and  feet  shall 
move,  by  an  act  of  choice ;  and  there  is  no  other  way  of 
the  Will's  determining,  directing,  or  commanding  anything 
at  all.  Whatsoever  the  Will  commands,  it  commands  by 
an  act  of  the  Will.  And  if  it  has  itself  under  its  com 
mand,  and  determines  itself  in  its  own  actions,  it  doubtless 
does  it  the  same  way  that  it  determines  other  things 
which  are  under  its  command.  So  that  if  the  freedom  of 
the  Will  consists  in  this,  that  it  has  itself  and  its  own 
actions  under  its  command  and  direction,  and  its  own 
volitions  are  determined  by  itself,  it  will  follow,  that  every 
free  volition  arises  from  another  antecedent  volition,  di 
recting  and  commanding  that :  and  if  that  directing  voli 
tion  be  also  free,  in  that  also  the  Will  is  determined: 
that  is  to  say,  that  directing  volition  is  determined  by 
another  going  before  that ;  and  so  on,  till  we  come  to  the 
first  volition  in  the  whole  series ;  and  if  that  first  volition 
be  free,  and  the  Will  self-determined  in  it,  then  that  is 
determined  by  another  volition  preceding  that.  Which 
is  a  contradiction;  because,  by  the  supposition,  it  can  have 
none  before  it,  to  direct  or  determine  it,  being  the  first  in 
the  train.  But  if  that  first  volition  is  not  determined  by 
any  preceding  act  of  the  Will,  then  that  act  is  not  deter 
mined  by  the  Will,  and  so  is  not  free  in  the  Arminian 
notion  of  freedom,  which  consists  in  the  Will's  self-deter 
mination.  And  if  that  first  act  of  the  Will  which  deter- 


EDWABDS]  FREEDOM  OF  THE    WILL.  151 

mines  and  fixes  the  subsequent  acts  be  not  free,  none  of 
the  following  acts  which  are  determined  by  it  can  be  free. 
If  we  suppose  there  are  five  acts  in  the  train,  the  fifth  and 
last  determined  by  the  fourth,  and  the  fourth  by  the  third, 
the  third  by  the  second,  and  the  second  by  the  first ;  if 
the  first  is  not  determined  by  the  Will,  and  so  not  free, 
then  none  of  them  are  truly  determined  by  the  "Will :  that 
is,  that  each  of  them  are  as  they  are,  and  not  otherwise, 
is  not  first  owing  to  the  "Will,  but  to  the  determination  of 
the  first  in  the  series,  which  is  not  dependent  on  the  Will, 
and  is  that  which  the  Will  has  no  hand  in  determining. 
And  this  being  that  which  decides  what  the  rest  shall  be, 
and  determines  their  existence ;  therefore  the  first  deter 
mination  of  their  existence  is  not  from  the  Will.  The 
case  is  just  the  same  if,  instead  of  a  chain  of  five  acts  of 
the  Will,  we  should  suppose  a  succession  of  ten,  or  an 
hundred,  or  ten  thousand.  If  the  first  act  be  not  free, 
being  determined  by  something  out  of  the  Will,  and  this 
determines  the  next  to  be  agreeable  to  itself,  and  that  the 
next,  and  so  on ;  none  of  them  are  free,  but  all  originally 
depend  on,  and  are  determined  by,  some  cause  out  of  the 
Will ;  and  so  all  freedom  in  the  case  is  excluded,  and  no 
act  of  the  Will  can  be  free,  according  to  this  notion  of 
freedom.  If  we  should  suppose  a  long  chain  of  ten  thou 
sand  links,  so  connected,  that  if  the  first  link  moves,  it 
will  move  the  next,  and  that  the  next ;  and  so  the  whole 
chain  must  be  determined  to  motion,  and  in  the  direction 
of  its  motion,  by  the  motion  of  the  first  link ;  and  that  is 
moved  by  something  else ;  in  this  case,  though  all  the 
links,  but  one,  are  moved  by  other  parts  of  the  samp> 
chain,  yet  it  appears  that  the  motion  of  no  one,  nor  the 
direction  of  its  motion,  is  from  any  self-moving  or  self- 
determining  power  in  the  chain,  any  more  than  if  every 
link  were  immediately  inoved  by  something  that  did  not 


152  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [PAINE 

belong  to  the  chain.  If  the  Will  be  not  free  in  the  first 
act,  which  causes  the  next,  then  neither  is  it  free  in  the 
next,  which  is  caused  by  that  first  act ;  for  though  indeed 
the  Will  caused  it,  }Tet  it  did  not  cause  it  freely ;  because 
the  preceding  act,  by  which  it  was  caused,  was  not  free. 
And  again,  if  the  Will  be  not  free  in  the  second  act,  so 
neither  can  it  be  in  the  third,  which  is  caused  by  that ; 
because,  in  like  manner,  that  third  was  determined  by  au 
act  of  the  Will  that  was  not  free.  And  so  we  may  go  on 
to  the  next  act,  and  from  that  to  the  next;  and  how  long 
soever  the  succession  of  acts  is,  it  is  all  one ;  if  the  first 
on  which  the  whole  chain  depends,  and  which  determines 
all  the  rest,  be  not  a  free  act,  the  Will  is  not  free  in  causing 
or  determining  any  one  of  those  acts ;  because  the  act  by 
which  it  determines  them  all  is  not  a  free  act ;  and  there 
fore  the  Will  is  no  more  free  in  determining  them,  than  if 
it  did  not  cause  them  at  all.  Thus,  this  Arminian  notion 
of  Liberty  of  the  Will,  consisting  in  the  Will's  Self-deter 
mination,  is  repugnant  to  itself,  and  shuts  itself  wholly 
out  of  the  world. 


THE  TIMES  THAT  TRIED  MEN'S  SOULS. 

THOMAS   PAINE. 

[Among  the  literary  artists  of  the  Revolutionary  period  of  American 
history  Paine  occupied  a  very  high  rank,  through  his  vigor  of  thought 
and  peculiar  vividness  of  expression,  his  fearless  patriotism  and  hroad 
grasp  of  the  true  political  relations  and  rights  of  mankind.  Born  in 
England  in  1737,  it  was  not  until  1774  that  he  emigrated  to  America. 
Yet  he  must  have  been  deeply  imbued  from  his  youth  with  the  revo 
lutionary  sentiment  and  with  hatred  of  kingcraft,  for  he  very  soon 
afterwards  issued  his  famous  pamphlet  "  Common  Sense,"  which  is  full 


PAINE]    THE   TIMES  THAT  TRIED  MEN'S  SOULS.         153 

of  original  democratic  thought  and  performed  a  valuable  work  in 
teaching  the  principles  of  republicanism  to  the  American  people.  The 
depressed  feeling  which  prevailed  in  the  winter  of  1776-77  was  met 
Dy  him  with  the  stirring  appeals  of  "  The  Crisis,"  a  periodical  which 
appeared  irregularly  and  had  a  highly  beneficial  influence.  We  copy 
the  most  famous  of  the  papers  of  the  "Crisis."  For  vigor,  fearless 
ness,  and  patriotism  no  Kevolutionary  document  surpasses  it,  while  it 
paints  the  situation  with  a  vividness  which  seems  to  take  us  back  in 
person  to  "  the  times  that  tried  men's  souls."  In  1791  Paine  wrote  his 
"  Rights  of  Man,"  in  reply  to  Burke's  "  Keflections  on  the  French 
Revolution."  This  also  was  a  highly  valuable  addition  to  democratic 
literature,  and  attained  great  popularity.  He  lived  in  Paris  during 
the  French  Revolution,  and  narrowly  escaped  the  guillotine.  In  1795 
he  published  his  deistical  work,  "  The  Age  of  Reason."  The  religious 
radicalism  of  this  book  gave  great  offence,  and  has  covered  Paine 's 
name  with  an  obloquy  through  which  his  important  aid  to  the  cause 
of  human  liberty  has  been  almost  lost  sight  of.  He  returned  to  the 
United  States  in  1802,  and  died  in  New  York  in  1809.] 

THESE  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls.  The  summer 
soldier  and  the  sunshine  patriot  will,  in  this  crisis,  shrink 
from  the  service  of  his  country ;  but  he  that  stands  it  NOW, 
deserves  the  love  and  thanks  of  man  and  woman.  Tyranny, 
like  hell,  is  not  easily  conquered ;  yet  we  have  this  con 
solation  with  us,  that  the  harder  the  conflict,  the  more 
glorious  the  triumph.  "What  we  obtain  too  cheap,  we 
esteem  too  lightly :  'tis  dearness  only  that  gives  everything 
its  value.  Heaven  knows  how  to  put  a  proper  price  upon 
its  goods;  and  it  would  be  strange  indeed  if  so  celestial 
an  article  as  FREEDOM  should  not  be  highly  rated.  Brit 
ain,  with  an  army  to  enforce  her  tyranny,  has  declared 
that  she  has  a  right  (not  only  to  TAX,  but)  "  to  BIND  MS  in 
ALL  CASES  WHATSOEVER;"  and  if  being  bound  in  that  manner 
is  not  slavery,  then  is  there  not  such  a  thing  as  slavery 
upon  earth.  Even  the  expression  is  impious,  for  so  un 
limited  a  power  can  belong  only  to  GOD. 

Whether  the   independence  of  the  continent  was   de- 


154  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

clared  too  soon,  or  delayed  too  long,  I  will  not  now  enter 
into  as  an  argument :  my  own  simple  opinion  is,  that  had 
it  been  eight  months  earlier  it  would  have  been  much 
better.  We  did  not  make  a  proper  use  of  last  winter, 
neither  could  we,  while  we  were  in  a  dependent  state. 
However,  the  fault,  if  it  were  one,  was  all  our  own :  wo 
have  none  to  blame  but  ourselves.  But  no  great  deal  is 
lost  yet :  all  that  Howe  has  been  doing  for  this  month 
past  is  rather  a  ravage  than  a  conquest,  which  the  spirit 
of  the  Jerseys  a  year  ago  would  have  quickly  repulsed, 
and  which  time  and  a  little  resolution  will  soon  recover. 

I  have  as  little  superstition  in  me  as  any  man  living, 
but  my  secret  opinion  has  ever  been,  and  still  is,  that  Grod 
Almighty  will  not  give  up  a  people  to  military  destruction, 
or  leave  them  unsupportedly  to  perish,  who  had  so  ear 
nestly  and  so  repeatedly  sought  to  avoid  the  calamities  of 
war  by  every  decent  method  which  wisdom  could  invent. 
Neither  have  I  so  much  of  the  infidel  in  me  as  to  suppose 
that  He  has  relinquished  the  government  of  the  world, 
and  given  us  up  to  the  care  of  devils ;  and,  as  I  do  not,  I 
cannot  see  on  what  grounds  the  king  of  Britain  can  look 
up  to  heaven  for  help  against  us :  a  common  murderer,  a 
highwayman,  or  a  housebreaker  has  as  good  a  pretence 
as  he. 

'Tis  surprising  to  see  how  rapidly  a  panic  will  some 
times  run  through  a  country.  All  nations  and  ages  have 
been  subject  to  them :  Britain  has  trembled  like  an  ague 
at  the  report  of  a  French  fleet  of  flat-bottomed  boats ; 
and  in  the  fourteenth  century  the  whole  English  army, 
after  ravaging  the  kingdom  of  France,  was  driven  back 
like  men  petrified  with  fear ;  and  this  brave  exploit  was 
performed  by  a  few  broken  forces  collected  and  headed 
by  a  woman,  Joan  of  Arc.  Would  that  heaven  might 
inspire  some  Jersey  maid  to  spirit  up  her  countrymen, 


PAINE]    THE   TIMES  THAT  TRIED  MEN'S  SOULS.        155 

and  save  her  fair  fellow-sufferers  from  ravage  and  ravish 
ment  !  Yet  panics,  in  some  cases,  have  their  uses :  they 
produce  as  much  good  as  hurt.  Their  duration  is  always 
short ;  the  mind  soon  grows  through  them,  and  acquires 
a  firmer  habit  than  before.  But  their  peculiar  advantage 
is,  that  they  are  the  touchstones  of  sincerity  and  hypoc 
risy,  and  bring  things  and  men  to  light  which  might 
otherwise  have  lain  forever  undiscovered.  In  fact,  they 
have  the  same  effect  on  secret  traitors  which  an  imaginary 
apparition  would  have  upon  a  private  murderer.  They 
sift  out  the  hidden  thoughts  of  man,  and  hold  them  up  in 
public  to  the  world.  Many  a  disguised  tory  has  lately 
shown  his  head,  that  shall  penitentially  solemnize  with 
curses  the  day  on  which  Howe  arrived  upon  the  Delaware. 
As  I  was  with  the  troops  at  Fort  Lee,  and  marched 
vvith  them  to  the  edge  of  Pennsylvania,  I  am  well  ac 
quainted  with  many  circumstances  which  those  who  lived 
at  a  distance  know  but  little  or  nothing  of.  Our  situa 
tion  there  was  exceedingly  cramped,  the  place  being  on  a 
narrow  neck  of  land  between  the  North  Eiver  and  the 
Hackensack.  Our  force  was  inconsiderable,  being  not 
one-fourth  so  great  as  Howe  could  bring  against  us.  We 
had  no  army  at  hand  to  have  relieved  the  garrison,  had 
we  shut  ourselves  up  and  stood  on  the  defence.  Our 
ammunition,  light  artillery,  and  the  best  part  of  our 
stores  had  been  removed,  upon  the  apprehension  that 
Howe  would  endeavor  to  penetrate  the  Jerseys,  in  which 
case  Fort  Lee  could  be  of  no  use  to  us ;  for  it  must  occur 
to  every  thinking  man,  whether  in  the  army  or  not,  that 
these  kind  of  field  forts  are  only  for  temporary  purposes, 
and  last  in  use  no  longer  than  the  enemy  directs  his  force 
against  the  particular  object  which  such  forts  are  raised 
to  defend.  Such  was  our  situation  and  condition  at  Fort 
Lee  on  the  morning  of  the  20th  of  November,  when  an 


156  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

officer  arrived  with  information  that  the  enemy,  with  two 
hundred  boats,  had  landed  about  seven  or  eight  miles 
above.  Major-General  Greene,  who  commanded  the  gar 
rison,  immediately  ordered  them  under  arms,  and  sent 
express  to  his  Excellency  General  Washington  at  the 
town  of  Hackensack,  distant  by  the  way  of  the  ferry  six 
miles.  Our  first  object  was  to  secure  the  bridge  over  the 
Hackensack,  which  laid  up  the  river  between  the  enemy 
and  us,  about  six  miles  from  us  and  three  from  them. 
General  Washington  arrived  in  about  three-quarters  of  an 
hour,  and  marched  at  the  head  of  the  troops  towards  the 
bridge,  which  place  I  expected  we  should  have  a  brush 
for :  however,  they  did  not  choose  to  dispute  it  with  us, 
and  the  greatest  part  of  our  troops  went  over  the  bridge, 
the  rest  over  the  ferry,  except  some  which  passed  at  a 
mill  on  a  small  creek,  between  the  bridge  and  the  ferry. 
and  made  their  way  through  some  marshy  grounds  up  to 
the  town  of  Hackensack,  and  there  passed  the  river.  We 
brought  off  as  much  baggage  as  the  wagons  could  contain, 
the  rest  was  lost.  The  simple  object  was  to  bring  off  the 
garrison,  and  to  march  them  on  till  they  could  be  strength 
ened  by  the  Jersey  or  Pennsylvania  militia,  so  as  to  be 
enabled  to  make  a  stand.  We  stayed  four  days  at  Newark, 
collected  in  our  outposts,  with  some  of  the  Jersey  militia, 
and  marched  out  twice  to  meet  the  enemy,  on  information 
of  their  being  advancing,  though  our  numbers  were  greatly 
inferior  to  theirs.  Howe,  in  my  little  opinion,  committed 
a  great  error  in  generalship  in  not  throwing  a  body  of 
forces  off  from  Staten  Island  through  Amboy,  by  which 
means  he  might  have  seized  all  our  stores  at  Brunswick 
and  intercepted  our  march  into  Pennsylvania.  But,  if 
we  believe  the  powers  of  hell  to  be  limited,  we  must  like 
wise  believe  that  their  agents  are  under  some  providential 
control. 


PAINE]    THE   TIMES   THAT  TRIED  MEN'S  SOULS.        157 

I  shall  not  now  attempt  to  give  all  the  particulars  of 
our  retreat  to  the  Delaware ;  suffice  it  for  the  present  to 
say  that  both  officers  and  men,  though  greatly  harassed 
and  fatigued,  frequently  without  rest,  covering,  or  pro 
vision,  the  inevitable  consequences  of  a  long  retreat,  bore 
it  with  a  manly  and  martial  spirit.  All  their  wishes  were 
one.  which  was  that  the  country  would  turn  out  and  help 
them  to  drive  the  enemy  back.  Voltaire  has  remarked 
that  King  "William  never  appeared  to  full  advantage  but 
in  difficulties  and  in  action :  the  same  remark  may  be 
made  of  General  "Washington,  for  the  character  fits  him. 
There  is  a  natural  firmness  in  some  minds  which  can 
not  be  unlocked  by  trifles,  but  which,  when  unlocked,  dis 
covers  a  cabinet  of  fortitude ;  and  I  reckon  it  among 
those  kind  of  public  blessings,  which  we  do  not  imme 
diately  see,  that  God  hath  blest  him  with  uninterrupted 
health,  and  given  him  a  mind  that  can  even  flourish  upon 
care. 

I  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  some  miscellaneous 
remarks  on  the  state  of  our  affairs,  and  shall  begin  with 
asking  the  following  question :  Why  is  it  that  the  enemy 
have  left  the  New  England  provinces,  and  made  these 
middle  ones  the  seat  of  war  ?  The  answer  is  easy :  New 
England  is  not  infested  with  tories,  and  we  are.  I  have 
been  tender  in  raising  the  cry  against  these  men,  and  used 
numberless  arguments  to  show  them  their  danger;  lut 
it  will  not  do  to  sacrifice  a  world  to  either  their  folly  or 
their  baseness.  The  period  is  now  arrived  in  which  either 
they  or  we  must  change  our  sentiments,  or  one  or  both 
must  fall.  And  what  is  a  tory  ?  Good  God !  what  is  he  ? 
I  should  not  be  afraid  to  go  with  an  hundred  whigs  against 
a  thousand  tories,  were  they  to  attempt  to  get  into  arms. 
Every  tory  is  a  coward ;  for  a  servile,  slavish,  self-inter 
ested  fear  is  the  foundation  of  toryism ;  and  a  man  under 
IT  14 


158  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

such  influence,  though  he  may  be  cruel,  never  can  be 
brave. 

But,  before  the  line  of  irrecoverable  separation  be  drawn 
between  us,  let  us  reason  the  matter  together.  Your  con 
duct  is  an  invitation  to  the  enemy,  yet  not  one  in  a  thou 
sand  of  you  has  heart  enough  to  join  him.  Howe  is  as 
much  deceived  by  you  as  the  American  cause  is  injured 
by  you.  He  expects  you  will  all  take  up  arms,  and  flock 
to  his  standard  with  muskets  on  your  shoulders.  Your 
opinions  are  of  no  use  to  him,  unless  you  support  him 
personally ;  for  'tis  soldiers,  and  not  tories,  that  he  wants. 

I  once  felt  all  that  kind  of  anger,  which  a  man  ought 
to  feel,  against  the  mean  principles  that  are  held  by  the 
tories.  A  noted  one,  who  kept  a  tavern  at  Amboy,  was 
standing  at  his  door,  with  as  pretty  a  child  in  his  hand, 
about  eight  or  nine  years  old,  as  'most  I  ever  saw,  and, 
after  speaking  his  mind  as  freely  as  he  thought  was  pru 
dent,  finished  with  this  unfatherly  expression,  "  Well !  give 
me  peace  in  my  day."  Not  a  man  lives  on  the  continent 
but  fully  believes  that  a  separation  must  some  time  or 
other  finally  take  place,  and  a  generous  parent  should  have 
said,  "If  there  must  be  trouble,  let  it  be  in  my  day,  that  my 
child  may  have  peace."  And  this  single  reflection,  well 
applied,  is  sufficient  to  awaken  every  man  to  duty.  Not 
a  place  upon  earth  might  be  so  happy  as  America.  Her 
situation  is  remote  from  all  the  wrangling  world,  and  she 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  trade  with  them.  A  man  may 
easily  distinguish  in  himself  between  temper  and  principle, 
and  I  am  as  confident,  as  I  am  that  God  governs  the  world, 
that  America  will  never  be  happy  till  she  gets  clear  of 
foreign  dominion.  Wars,  without  ceasing,  will  break  out 
till  that  period  arrives,  and  the  continent  must  in  the  end 
be  conqueror;  for  though  the  flame  of  liberty  may  some 
times  cease  to  shine,  the  coal  can  never  expire. 


PAINE]    THE   TIMES  THAT  TRIED  MEN'S  SOULS.        159 

America  did  not,  nor  does  not,  want  force ;  but  she  wanted 
a  proper  application  of  that  force.  Wisdom  is  not  the 
purchase  of  a  day,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  we  should  err 
at  the  first  setting  off.  From  an  excess  of  tenderness,  we 
were  unwilling  to  raise  an  army,  and  trusted  our  cause 
to  the  temporary  defence  of  a  well-meaning  militia.  A 
summer's  experience  has  now  taught  us  better ;  yet  with 
those  troops,  while  they  were  collected,  we  were  able  to 
set  bounds  to  the  progress  of  the  enemy,  and,  thank  God  1 
they  are  again  assembling.  I  always  considered  a  militia 
as  the  best  troops  in  the  world  for  a  sudden  exertion,  but 
they  will  not  do  for  a  long  campaign.  Howe,  it  is  prob 
able,  will  make  an  attempt  on  this  city :  should  he  fail  on 
this  side  the  Delaware,  he  is  ruined ;  if  he  succeeds,  our 
cause  is  not  ruined.  He  stakes  all  on  his  side  against  a 
part  on  ours ;  admitting  he  succeeds,  the  consequence  will 
be,  that  armies  from  both  ends  of  the  continent  will  march 
to  assist  their  suffering  friends  in  the  middle  States ;  for 
he  cannot  go  everywhere,  it  is  impossible.  I  consider 
Howe  as  the  greatest  enemy  the  tories  have ;  he  is  bring 
ing  a  war  into  their  country,  which,  had  it  not  been  for 
him  and  partly  for  themselves,  they  had  been  clear  of. 
Should  he  now  be  expelled,  I  wish,  with  all  the  devotion 
of  a  Christian,  that  the  names  of  whig  and  tory  may 
never  more  be  mentioned  ;  but  should  the  tories  give  him 
encouragement  to  come,  or  assistance  if  he  come,  I  as  sin 
cerely  wish  that  our  next  year's  arms  may  expel  them 
from  the  continent,  and  the  Congress  appropriate  their 
possessions  to  the  relief  of  those  who  have  suffered  in 
well-doing.  A  single  successful  battle  next  year  will  set 
tle  the  whole.  America  could  carry  on  a  two-years'  war 
by  the  confiscation  of  the  property  of  disaffected  persons, 
and  be  made  happy  by  their  expulsion.  Say  not  that  this 
is  revenge ;  call  it  rather  the  soft  resentment  of  a  suffer- 


160  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

ing  people,  who,  having  no  object  in  view  but  the  good  of 
all,  have  staked  their  own  all  upon  a  seemingly  doubtful 
event.  Yet  it  is  folly  to  argue  against  determined  hard 
ness  ;  eloquence  may  strike  the  ear,  and  the  language  of 
sorrow  draw  forth  the  tear  of  compassion,  but  nothing 
can  reach  the  heart  that  is  steeled  with  prejudice. 

Quitting  this  class  of  men,  I  turn  with  the  warm  ardor 
of  a  friend  to  those  who  have  nobly  stood,  and  are  yet  de 
termined  to  stand  the  matter  out.  I  call  not  upon  a  few, 
but  upon  all  ;  not  on  t his  State  or  that  State,  but  on  every 
State;  up  and  help  us;  lay  your  shoulders  to  the  wheel; 
better  have  too  much  force  than  too  little,  when  so  great 
an  object  is  at  stake.  Let  it  be  told  to  the  future  world, 
that  in  the  depth  of  winter,  when  nothing  but  hope  and 
virtue  could  survive,  that  the  city  and  the  country,  alarmed 
at  one  common  danger,  came  forth  to  meet  and  to  repulse 
it.  Say  not  that  thousands  are  gone ;  turn  out  your  tens 
of  thousands ;  throw  not  the  burden  of  the  day  upon 
Providence,  but  "show  your  faith  by  your  works,"  that  God 
may  bless  you.  It  matters  not  where  you  live,  or  what 
rank  of  life  you  hold,  the  evil  or  the  blessing  will  reach 
you  all.  The  far  and  the  near,  the  home  counties  and  the 
back,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  will  suffer  or  rejoice  alike. 
The  heart  that  feels  not  now  is  dead :  the  blood  of  his 
children  will  curse  his  cowardice,  who  shrinks  back  at  a 
time  when  a  little  might  have  saved  the  whole,  and  made 
them  happy.  I  love  the  man  that  can  smile  in  trouble, 
that  can  gather  strength  from  distress,  and  grow  brave 
by  reflection.  "Tis  the  business  of  little  minds  to  shrink ; 
bat  he  whose  heart  is  firm,  and  whose  conscience  approves 
his  conduct,  will  pursue  his  principles  unto  death.  My 
own  line  of  reasoning  is  to  myself  as  straight  and  clear 
as  a  ray  of  light.  Not  all  the  treasures  of  the  world,  so 
far  as  I  believe,  could  have  induced  me  to  support  an  offen- 


PAINE]    THE   TIMES  THAT  TRIED  MEN'S  SOULS.        161 

sive  war,  for  I  think  it  murder ;  but  if  a  thief  break  into 
my  house,  burn  and  destroy  my  property,  and  kill  or 
threaten  to  kill  me,  or  those  that  are  in  it,  and  to  "  bind 
me  in  all  cases  whatsoever"  to  his  absolute  will,  am  I  to 
Buffer  it  ?  What  signifies  it  to  me  whether  he  who  does  it 
is  a  king  or  a  common  man ;  my  countryman  or  not  my 
countryman ;  whether  it  is  done  by  an  individual  villain 
or  an  army  of  them  ?  If  we  reason  to  the  root  of  things 
we  shall  find  no  difference ;  neither  can  any  just  cause 
be  assigned  why  we  should  punish  in  the  one  case  and 
pardon  in  the  other.  Let  them  call  me  rebel,  and  welcome, 
I  feel  no  concern  from  it ;  but  I  should  suffer  the  misery 
of  devils  were  I  to  make  a  whore  of  my  soul  by  swear 
ing  allegiance  to  one  whose  character  is  that  of  a  sottish, 
stupid,  stubborn,  worthless,  brutish  man.  I  conceive  like 
wise  a  horrid  idea  in  receiving  mercy  from  a  being  who 
at  the  last  day  shall  be  shrieking  to  the  rocks  and  moun 
tains  to  cover  him,  and  fleeing  with  terror  from  the  orphan, 
the  widow,  and  the  slain  of  America. 

There  are  cases  which  cannot  be  overdone  by  language, 
and  this  is  one.  There  are  persons  too  who  see  not  the 
full  extent  of  the  evil  which  threatens  them ;  they  solace 
themselves  with  hopes  that  the  enemy,  if  they  succeed, 
will  be  merciful.  It  is  the  madness  of  folly  to  expect 
mercy  from  those  who  have  refused  to  do  justice ;  and 
even  mercy,  where  conquest  is  the  object,  is  only  a  trick 
of  war :  the  cunning  of  the  fox  is  as  murderous  as  the 
violence  of  the  wolf;  and  we  ought  to  guard  equally 
against  both.  Howe's  first  object  is,  partly  by  threats 
and  partly  by  promises,  to  terrify  or  seduce  the  people  to 
deliver  up  their  arms  and  receive  mercy.  The  ministry 
recommended  the  same  plan  to  Gage,  and  this  is  what  the 
tories  call  making  their  peace ;  "  a  peace  which  passeth  all 
understanding"  indeed !  A  peace  which  would  be  the  im- 
ii.— I  14* 


162  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [PAINS 

mediate  forerunner  of  a  worse  ruin  than  any  wo  have 
yet  thought  of.  Ye  men  of  Pennsylvania,  do  reason  upon 
these  things !  Were  the  back  counties  to  give  up  their 
arms,  they  would  fall  an  easy  prey  to  the  Indians,  who 
are  all  armed.  This  perhaps  is  what  some  tories  would 
not  be  sorry  for.  Were  the  home  counties  to  deliver  up 
their  arms,  they  would  be  exposed  to  the  resentment  of 
the  back  counties,  who  would  then  have  it  in  their  power 
to  chastise  their  defection  at  pleasure.  And  were  any  one 
State  to  give  up  its  arms,  that  State  must  be  garrisoned 
by  all  Howe's  army  of  Britons  and  Hessians  to  preserve 
it  from  the  anger  of  the  rest.  Mutual  fear  is  a  principal 
link  in  the  chain  of  mutual  love,  and  woe  be  to  that  State 
that  breaks  the  compact.  Howe  is  mercifully  inviting  you 
to  barbarous  destruction,  and  men  must  be  either  rogues 
or  fools  that  will  not  see  it.  I  dwell  not  upon  the  vapors 
of  imagination ;  I  bring  reason  to  your  ears ;  and  in  lan 
guage  as  plain  as  A,  B,  C,  hold  up  truth  to  your  eyes. 

I  thank  God  that  I  fear  not.  I  see  no  real  cause  for 
fear.  I  know  our  situation  well,  and  can  see  the  way 
out  of  it.  While  our  army  was  collected,  Howe  dared  not 
risk  a  battle,  and  it  is  no  credit  to  him  that  he  decamped 
from  the  White  Plains,  and  waited  a  mean  opportunity  to 
ravage  the  defenceless  Jerseys ;  but  it  is  great  credit  to 
us,  that,  with  an  handful  of  men,  we  sustained  an  orderly 
retreat  for  near  an  hundred  miles,  brought  off  our  ammu 
nition,  all  our  field-pieces,  the  greatest  part  of  our  stores, 
and  had  four  rivers  to  pass.  None  can  B&y  that  our  retreat 
was  precipitate,  for  we  were  near  three  weeks  in  perform 
ing  it,  that  the  country  might  have  time  to  come  in. 
Twice  we  marched  back  to  meet  the  enemy,  and  remained 
out  till  dark.  The  sign  of  fear  was  not  seen  in  our  camp, 
and  had  not  some  of  the  cowardly  and  disaffected  inhabi 
tants  spread  false  alarms  through  the  country,  the  Jerseys 


SIMMS]    THE  MAIDEN  AND   THE  RATTLESNAKE.         163 

had  never  been  ravaged.  Once  more  we  are  again  col 
lected  and  collecting ;  our  new  army  at  both  ends  of  the 
continent  is  recruiting  fast,  and  we  shall  be  able  to  open 
the  next  campaign  with  sixty  thousand  men,  well  armed 
and  clothed.  This  is  our  situation,  and  who  will  may 
know  it.  By  perseverance  and  fortitude  we  have  the 
prospect  of  a  glorious  issue :  by  cowardice  and  submission, 
the  sad  choice  of  a  variety  of  evils, — a  ravaged  country — 
a  depopulated  city — habitations  without  safety,  and  slavery 
without  hope — our  homes  turned  into  barracks  and  bawdy- 
houses  for  Hessians,  and  a  future  race  to  provide  for  whose 
fathers  we  shall  doubt  of.  Look  on  this  picture,  and  weep 
over  it ! — and  if  there  yet  remains  one  thoughtless  wretch 
who  believes  it  not,  let  him  suffer  it  unlamented. 

PHILADELPHIA,  December  23, 1776. 


THE  MAIDEN  AND  THE  RATTLESNAKE. 

W.  G.  SIMMS. 

[William  Gilmore  Simms,  the  most  prolific  and  popular  novelist  01 
the  South,  was  a  native  of  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  where  he  was 
horn  in  1806.  He  died  in  1870.  He  wrote  in  all  some  thirty  novels, 
fourteen  volumes  of  poetry,  and  many  miscellaneous  works.  Of  his 
poems  the  hest  is  "  Atalantis,  a  Drama  of  the  Sea."  "  The  Partisan," 
"  The  Yemassee,"  and  "  Beauchampe"  are  considered  his  best  novels. 
Their  literary  value  is  not  of  the  higher  grade,  though  his  works  have 
considerable  merit  and  are  often  interestingly  written.  Our  selec 
tion  is  from  "  The  Yemassee."  The  heroine  meets  with  her  startling 
adventure  while  in  the  woods  waiting  the  coming  of  her  lover.] 

"  HE  does  not  come, — he  does  not  come,"  she  murmured, 
as  she  stood  contemplating  the  thick  copse  spreading  be 
fore  her,  and  forming  the  barrier  which  terminated  the 


164  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [SIMMS 

beautiful  range  of  oaks  which  constituted  the  grove.  How 
beautiful  was  the  green  and  garniture  of  that  little  copse 
of  wood !  The  leaves  were  thick,  and  the  grass  around 
lay  folded  over  and  over  in  bunches,  with  here  and  there 
a  wild  flower  gleaming  from  its  green  and  making  of  it  a 
beautiful  carpet  of  the  richest  and  most  various  texture. 
A  small  tree  rose  from  the  centre  of  a  clump  around  which 
a  wild  grape  gadded  luxuriantly ;  and,  with  an  incoherent 
sense  of  what  she  saw,  she  lingered  before  the  little  clus 
ter,  seeming  to  survey  that  which,  though  it  seemed  to 
fix  her  eye,  yet  failed  to  fill  her  thought.  Her  mind 
wandered, — her  soul  was  far  away ;  and  the  objects  in  her 
vision  were  far  other  than  those  which  occupied  her  im 
agination.  Things  grew  indistinct  beneath  her  eye.  The 
eye  rather  slept  than  saw.  The  musing  spirit  had  given 
holiday  to  the  ordinary  senses,  and  took  no  heed  of  the 
forms  that  rose,  and  floated,  or  glided  away,  before  them. 
In  this  way,  the  leaf  detached  made  no  impression  upon 
the  sight  that  was  yet  bent  upon  it ;  she  saw  not  the  bird, 
though  it  whirled,  untroubled  by  a  fear,  in  wanton  circles 
around  her  head  ;  and  the  black  snake,  with  the  rapidity 
of  an  arrow,  darted  over  her  path  without  arousing  a 
single  terror  in  the  form  that  otherwise  would  have  shiv 
ered  at  its  mere  appearance.  And  yet,  though  thus  indis 
tinct  were  all  things  around  her  to  the  musing  mind  of 
the  maiden,  her  eye  was  yet  singularly  fixed, — fastened, 
as  it  were,  to  a  single  spot,  gathered  and  controlled  by  a 
single  object,  and  glazed,  apparently,  beneath  a  curious 
fascination. 

Before  the  maiden  rose  a  little  clump  of  bushes, — bright 
tangled  leaves  flaunting  wide  in  glossiest  green,  with  vines 
trailing  over  them,  thickly  decked  with  blue  and  crimson 
flowers.  Her  eye  communed  vacantly  with  these;  fast 
ened  by.a  star-like  shining  glance,  a  subtle  ray,  that  shot 


SIMMS]    THE  MAIDEN  AND   THE  RATTLESNAKE.         165 

out  from  the  circle  of  green  leaves, — seeming  to  be  their 
very  eye, — and  sending  out  a  fluid  lustre  that  seemed  to 
stream  across  the  space  between  and  find  its  way  into  her 
own  eyes.  Very  piercing  and  beautiful  was  that  subtle 
brightness,  of  the  sweetest,  strangest  power.  And  now 
the  leaves  quivered  and  seemed  to  float  away,  only  to  re 
turn,  and  the  vines  waved  and  swung  around  in  fantastic 
mazes,  unfolding  ever-changing  varieties  of  form  and  color 
to  her  gaze ;  but  the  star-like  eye  was  ever  steadfast, 
bright  and  gorgeous  gleaming  in  their  midst,  and  still 
fastened,  with  strange  fondness,  upon  her  own.  How 
beautiful,  with  wondrous  intensity,  did  it  gleam,  and  di 
late,  growing  larger  and  more  lustrous  with  every  ray 
which  it  sent  forth !  And  her  own  glance  became  intense, 
fixed  also ;  but  with  a  dreaming  sense  that  conjured  up 
the  wildest  fancies,  terribly  beautiful,  that  took  her  soul 
away  from  her,  and  wrapt  it  about  as  with  a  spell.  She 
would  have  fled,  she  would  have  flown ;  but  she  had  not 
power  to  move.  The  will  was  wanting  to  her  flight.  She 
felt  that  she  could  have  bent  forward  to  pluck  the  gem- 
like  thing  from  the  bosom  of  the  leaf  in  which  it  seemed 
to  grow,  and  which  it  irradiated  with  its  bright  white 
gleam ;  but  ever  as  she  aimed  to  stretch  forth  her  hand 
and  bend  forward,  she  heard  a  rush  of  wings  and  a  shrill 
scream  from  the  tree  above  her,- — such  a  scream  as  the 
mock-bird  makes  when  angrily  it  raises  its  dusky  crest 
and  flaps  its  wings  furiously  against  its  slender  sides. 
Such  a  scream  seemed  like  a  warning,  and,  though  yet  un- 
awakened  to  full  consciousness,  it  startled  her  and  forbade 
her  effort.  More  than  once,  in  her  survey  of  this  strange 
object,  had  she  heard  that  shrill  note,  and  still  had  it  car 
ried  to  her  ear  the  same  note  of  warning,  and  to  her  mind 
the  same  vague  consciousness  of  an  evil  presence.  But  the 
star-like  eye  was  yet  upon  her  own, — a  small,  bright  eye, 


166  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [SIMMS 

quick  like  that  of  a  bird,  now  steady  in  its  place  and  ob 
servant  seemingly  only  of  hers,  now  darting  forward  with 
all  the  clustering  leaves  about  it,  and  shooting  up  towards 
her,  as  if  wooing  her  to  seize.  At  another  moment,  riveted 
to  the  vine  which  lay  around  it,  it  would  whirl  round  and 
round,  dazzlingly  bright  and  beautiful,  even  as  a  torch 
waving  hurriedly  by  night  in  the  hands  of  some  playful 
boy;  but  in  all  this  time  the  glance  was  never  taken 
from  her  own :  there  it  grew,  fixed, — a  very  principle  of 
light, — and  such  a  light, — a  subtle,  burning,  piercing,  fas 
cinating  gleam,  such  as  gathers  in  vapor  above  the  old 
grave  and  binds  us  as  we  look, — shooting,  darting  directly 
into  her  eye,  dazzling  her  gaze,  defeating  its  sense  of  dis 
crimination,  and  confusing  strangely  that  of  perception. 
She  felt  dizzy ;  for,  as  she  looked,  a  cloud  of  colors — bright, 
gay,  various  colors — floated  and  hung  like  so  much  drapery 
around  the  single  object  that  had  so  secured  her  attention 
and  spellbound  her  feet.  Her  limbs  felt  momently  more 
and  more  insecure, — her  blood  grew  cold,  and  she  seemed 
to  feel  the  gradual  freeze  of  vein  by  vein  throughout  her 
person. 

At  that  moment  a  rustling  was  heard  in  the  branches 
of  the  tree  beside  her,  and  the  bird,  which  had  repeatedly 
uttered  a  single  cry  above  her,  as  it  were  of  warning,  flew 
away  from  his  station  with  a  scream  more  piercing  than 
ever.  This  movement  had  the  effect,  for  which  it  really 
seemed  intended,  of  bringing  back  to  her  a  portion  of  the 
consciousness  she  seemed  so  totally  to  have  been  deprived 
of  before.  She  strove  to  move  from  before  the  beautiful 
but  terrible  presence,  but  for  a  while  she  strove  in  vain. 
The  rich,  star-like  glance  still  riveted  her  own,  and  the 
subtle  fascination  kept  her  bound.  The  mental  energies, 
however,  with  the  moment  of  their  greatest  trial,  now 
gathered  suddenly  to  her  aid;  and,  with  a  desperate 


SIMMS]    THE  MAIDEN  AND   THE  RATTLESNAKE.         167 

effort,  but  with  a  feeling  still  of  most  annoying  uncer 
tainty  and  dread,  she  succeeded  partially  in  the  attempt, 
and  threw  her  arms  backwards,  her  hands  grasping  the 
neighboring  tree,  feeble,  tottering,  and  depending  upon 
it  for  that  support  which  her  own  limbs  almost  entirely 
denied  her.  With  her  movement,  however,  came  the 
full  development  of  the  powerful  spell  and  dreadful  mys 
tery  before  her.  As  her  feet  receded,  though  but  a 
single  pace,  to  the  tree  against  which  she  now  rested, 
the  audibly-articulated  ring,  like  that  of  a  watch  when 
wound  up  with  the  verge  broken,  announced  the  naturu 
of  that  splendid  yet  dangerous  presence,  in  the  form  of 
the  monstrous  rattlesnake,  now  but  a  few  feet  before  her, 
lying  coiled  at  the  bottom  of  a  beautiful  shrub,  with 
which,  to  her  dreaming  eye,  many  of  its  own  glorious 
hues  had  become  associated.  She  was  at  length  con 
scious  enough  to  perceive  and  to  feel  all  her  danger ;  but 
terror  had  denied  her  the  strength  necessary  to  fly  from 
her  dreadful  enemy.  There  still  the  eye  glared  beauti 
fully  bright  and  piercing  upon  her  own ;  and,  seemingly 
in  a  spirit  of  sport,  the  insidious  reptile  slowly  unwound 
himself  from  his  coil,  but  only  to  gather  himself  up  again 
into  his  muscular  rings,  his  great  flat  head  rising  in  the 
midst,  and  slowly  nodding,  as  it  were,  towards  her,  the 
eye  still  peering  deeply  into  her  own,  the  rattle  still 
slightly  ringing  at  intervals,  and  giving  forth  that  para 
lyzing  sound  which,  once  heard,  is  remembered  forever. 

The  reptile  all  this  while  appeared  to  be  conscious  of, 
and  to  sport  with,  while  seeking  to  excite,  her  terrors. 
Now,  with  its  flat  head,  distended  mouth,  and  curving 
neck,  would  it  dart  forward  its  long  form  towards  her, — 
its  fatal  teeth,  unfolding  on  either  side  of  its  upper  jaw, 
seeming  to  threaten  her  with  instantaneous  death,  while 
its  powerful  eye  shot  forth  glances  of  that  fatal  power 


168  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [SIMMS 

of  fascination,  malignantly  bright,  which,  by  paralyzing, 
with  a  novel  form  of  terror  and  of  beauty,  may  readily 
account  for  the  spell  it  possesses  of  binding  the  feet  of 
the  timid  and  denying  to  fear  even  the  privilege  of  flight. 
Could  she  have  fled !  She  felt  the  necessity ;  but  the 
power  of  her  limbs  was  gone ;  and  there  still  it  lay,  coil 
ing  and  uncoiling,  its  arching  neck  glittering  like  a  ring 
3f  brazed  copper,  bright  and  lurid,  and  the  dreadful 
beauty  of  its  eye  still  fastened,  eagerly  contemplating  iho 
victim,  while  the  pendulous  rattle  still  rang  the  death- 
note,  as  if  to  prepare  the  conscious  mind  for  the  fate 
which  is  momently  approaching  to  the  blow.  Meanwhile, 
the  stillness  became  death-like  with  all  surrounding  ob 
jects.  The  bird  had  gone  with  its  scream  and  rush.  The 
breeze  was  silent.  The  vines  ceased  to  wave.  The  leaves 
faintly  quivered  on  their  stems.  The  serpent  once  more 
lay  still ;  but  the  eye  was  never  once  turned  away  from 
the  victim.  Its  corded  muscles  are  all  in  coil.  They  have 
but  to  unclasp  suddenly,  and  the  dreadful  folds  will  be 
upon  her,  its  full  length,  and  the  fatal  teeth  will  strike, 
and  the  deadly  venom  which  they  secrete  will  mingle 
with  the  life-blood  in  her  veins. 

The  terrified  damsel,  her  full  consciousness  restored, 
but  not  her  strength,  feels  all  the  danger.  She  sees  that 
the  sport  of  the  terrible  reptile  is  at  an  end.  She  cannot 
now  mistake  the  horrid  expression  of  its  eye.  She  strives 
to  scream,  but  the  voice  dies  away,  a  feeble  gurgling  in 
her  throat.  Her  tongue  is  paralyzed ;  her  lips  are  sealed ; 
once  more  she  strives  for  flight,  but  her  limbs  refuse  their 
office.  She  has  nothing  left  of  life  but  its  fearful  conscious 
ness.  It  is  in  her  despair  that,  a  last  effort,  she  succeeds 
to  scream,  a  single  wild  cry,  forced  from  her  by  the  accu 
mulated  agony ;  she  sinks  down  upon  the  grass  before  her 
enemy, — her  eyes,  however,  still  open,  and  still  looking 


SIMMS]    THE  MAIDEN  AND    THE  RATTLESNAKE.         169 

upon  those  which  he  directs  forever  upon  them.  She  sees 
him  approach, — now  advancing,  now  receding, — now  swell 
ing  in  every  part  with  something  of  anger,  while  his 
neck  is  arched  beautifully  like  that  of  a  wild  horse  under 
the  curb ;  until,  at  length,  tired,  as  it  were,  of  play,  like 
the  cat  with  its  victim,  she  sees  the  neck  growing  larger 
and  becoming  completely  bronzed  as  about  to  strike, — 
the  huge  jaws  unclosing  almost  directly  above  her,  the 
long,  tubulated  fang,  charged  with  venom,  protruding  from 
the  cavernous  mouth, — and  she  sees  no  more !  Insensi 
bility  came  to  her  aid,  and  she  lay  almost  lifeless  under 
the  very  folds  of  the  monster. 

In  that  moment  the  copse  parted, — and  an  arrow, 
piercing  the  monster  through  and  through  the  neck,  bore 
his  head  forward  to  the  ground,  alongside  of  the  maiden, 
while  his  spiral  extremities,  now  unfolding  in  his  own 
agony,  were  actually,  in  part,  writhing  upon  her  person. 
The  arrow  came  from  the  fugitive  Occonestoga,  who  had 
fortunately  reached  the  spot  in  season  on  his  way  to  the 
Block  House.  He  rushed  from  the  copse  as  the  snake 
fell,  and,  with  a  stick,  fearlessly  approached  him  where  he 
lay  tossing  in  agony  upon  the  grass.  Seeing  him  advance, 
the  courageous  reptile  made  an  effort  to  regain  his  coil, 
shaking  the  fearful  rattle  violently  at  every  evolution 
which  he  took  for  that  purpose ;  but  the  arrow,  completely 
passing  through  his  neck,  opposed  an  unyielding  obstacle 
to  the  endeavor ;  and,  finding  it  hopeless,  and  seeing  the 
new  enemy  about  to  assault  him,  with  something  of  the 
spirit  of  the  white  man  under  like  circumstances,  he 
turned  desperately  round,  and,  striking  his  charged  fangs, 
so  that  they  were  riveted  in  the  wound  they  made,  into 
a  susceptible  part  of  his  own  body,  he  threw  himself  over 
with  a  single  convulsion,  and,  a  moment  after,  lay  dead 
beside  the  utterly  unconscious  maiden, 
ii.— n  15 


170  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HARTK 

THE  SHERIFF  OF  CALAVERAS. 

BRET  HARTE. 

[Francis  Bret  Harte  was  born  at  Albany,  New  York,  in  1839.  He 
went  to  California  in  1864,  where  he  soon  entered  the  journalistic  pro 
fession,  and  quickly  acquired  reputation  as  a  skilful  humorist,  poet, 
and  novelist,  his  work  embodying  the  peculiar  flavor  of  Western  life 
and  character  to  a  degree  unequalled  by  any  of  his  competitors  in  this 
field.  His  short  stories,  such  as  "  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,"  are 
strongly  original  in  plot  and  incident,  and  are  excellent  renderings 
of  the  peculiarities  of  life  in  the  mining  districts,  while  his  poems, 
though  mainly  dependent  for  popularity  on  their  dialectical  oddity 
and  their  burlesque  humor,  often  reach  a  much  higher  level  of  poetic 
merit.  He  is  a  keen  delineator  of  the  pioneer  character,  and  repre 
sents  the  varieties  of  individuals  in  the  mining  camps  with  photo 
graphic  correctness.  We  offer  an  illustrative  selection  from  his  novel 
of  "  Gabriel  Conroy."  It  must  be  premised  that  Gabriel  is  a  simple- 
minded,  thoroughly  honest  and  upright  giant  of  the  mining  districts, 
who  has  been  suspected  of  the  murder  of  a  Mexican  sharper.  He  is 
under  arrest,  and  a  vigilance  committee  has  determined  to  make  short 
work  of  him.  Their  plans  are  overheard  by  Jack  Hamlin,  a  noted 
gambler,  who  rides  in  all  haste  to  the  rescue  of  his  friend  Gabriel.  It 
is,  however,  mainly  to  display  the  well-drawn  picture  of  the  Sheriff  of 
Calaveras  that  we  present  this  selection.] 

AT  nine  o'clock  half  a  dozen  men  lounged  down  the 
main  street  and  ascended  the  upper  loft  of  Briggs'  ware 
house.  In  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  a  dozen  more  from 
different  saloons  in  the  town  lounged  as  indifferently 
in  the  direction  of  Briggs',  until  at  half-past  nine  the 
assemblage  in  the  loft  numbered  fifty  men.  During  this 
interval  a  smaller  party  had  gathered,  apparently  as 
accidentally  and  indefinitely  as  to  purpose,  on  the  steps 
of  the  little  two-story  brick  court-house  in  which  the 
prisoner  was  confined.  At  ten  o'clock  a  horse  was  furi 
ously  ridden  into  town,  and  dropped  exhausted  at  the 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE. 


HAKTE]  THE  SHERIFF  OF  CALAVERAS.  171 

outskirts.  A  few  moments  later  a  man  hurriedly  crossed 
the  plaza  toward  the  court-house.  It  was  Mr.  Jack 
Hamlin.  But  the  Three  Yoices  had  preceded  him,  and 
from  the  steps  of  the  court-house  were  already  uttering 
the  popular  mandate. 

It  was  addressed  to  a  single  man, — a  man  who,  deserted 
by  his  posse  and  abandoned  by  his  friends,  had  for  the 
last  twelve  hours  sat  beside  his  charge,  tireless,  watchful, 
defiant,  and  resolute, — Joe  Hall,  the  Sheriff  of  Calaveras ! 
He  had  been  waiting  for  this  summons,  behind  barricaded 
doors,  with  pistols  in  his  belt,  and  no  hope  in  his  heart ; 
a  man  of  limited  ideas  and  restricted  resources,  constant 
to  only  one  intent, — that  of  dying  behind  those  bars,  in 
defence  of  that  legal  trust  which  his  office  and  an  extra 
fifty  votes  at  the  election  only  two  months  before  had  put 
into  his  hands.  It  had  perplexed  him  for  a  moment  that 
he  heard  the  voices  of  some  of  these  voters  below  him 
clamoring  against  him,  but  above  their  feebler  pipe  always 
rose  another  mandatory  sentence,  "  We  command  you  to 
take  and  safely  keep  the  body  of  Gabriel  Conroy,"  and, 
being  a  simple  man,  the  recollection  of  the  quaint  phrase 
ology  strengthened  him  and  cleared  his  mind.  Ah  me ! 
I  fear  he  had  none  of  the  external  marks  of  a  hero ;  as  I 
remember  him,  he  was  small,  indistinctive,  and  fidgety, 
without  the  repose  of  strength ;  a  man  who  at  that  ex 
treme  moment  chewed  tobacco  and  spat  vigorously  on  the 
floor ;  who  tweaked  the  ends  of  his  scanty  beard,  paced 
the  floor,  and  tried  the  locks  of  his  pistols.  Presently  he 
stopped  before  Gabriel,  and  said,  almost  fiercely, — 

"  You  hear  that  ? — they  are  coming !" 

Gabriel  nodded.  Two  hours  before,  when  the  contem 
plated  attack  of  the  Vigilance  Committee  had  been  re 
vealed  to  him,  he  had  written  a  few  lines  to  Lawyer 
Maxwell,  which  he  intrusted  to  the  sheriff.  He  had 


172  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HARTB 

then  relapsed  into  his  usual  tranquillity, — serious,  simple, 
and,  when  he  had  occasion  to  speak,  diffident  and  apolo 
getic. 

"  Are  you  going  to  help  me  ?"  continued  Hall. 

"In  course,"  said  Gabriel,  in  quiet  surprise,  "ef  you 
say  so.  But  don't  ye  do  nowt  ez  would  be  gettin'  your 
self  into  troubil  along  o'  me.  I  ain't  worth  it.  Maybe 
it  'ud  be  jest  as  square  ef  ye  handed  me  over  to  them 
chaps  out  yer,  allowin'  I  was  a  heep  o'  troubil  to  you,  and 
reckonin'  you'd  about  hed  your  sheer  o'  the  keer  o'  me, 
and  kinder  passin'  me  round.  But  ef  you  do  feel  obli 
gated  to  take  keer  o'  me,  ez  hevin'  promised  the  jedges 
and  jury"  (it  is  almost  impossible  to  convey  the  gentle 
deprecatoriness  of  Gabriel's  voice  and  accent  at  this  junc 
ture),  "  why,"  he  added,  "  I'm  with  ye.  I'm  thar !  You 
understand  me !" 

He  rose  slowly,  and  with  quiet  but  powerfully  signifi 
cant  deliberation  placed  the  chair  he  had  been  sitting  on 
back  against  the  wall.  The  tone  and  act  satisfied  the 
sheriff.  The  seventy-four-gun  ship,  Gabriel  Conroy,  was 
clearing  the  decks  for  action. 

There  was  an  ominous  lull  in  the  outcries  below,  and 
then  the  solitary  lifting  up  of  a  single  voice,  the  Potential 
Voice  of  the  night  before !  The  sheriff  walked  to  a 
window  in  the  hall  and  opened  it.  The  besieger  and  be 
sieged  measured  each  other  with  a  look.  Then  came  the 
Homeric  chaff: 

"  Git  out  o'  that,  Joe  Hall,  and  run  home  to  your  mother. 
She's  getting  oneasy  about  ye  I" 

"  The  h — 11  you  say !"  responded  Hall,  promptly,  "  and 
the  old  woman  in  such  a  hurry  she  had  to  borry  Al. 
Barker's  hat  and  breeches  to  come  here !  Run  home,  old 
gal,  and  don't  parse  yourself  off  for  a  man  ag'in !" 

"This  ain't  no  bluff,  Joe  Hall!      Why  don't  ye  call? 


HARTE]  THE  SHERIFF  OF  CALAVERAS.  173 

Yer's  fifty  men ;  the  returns  are  ag'in'  ye,  and  two  pre 
cincts  yet  to  hear  from."  (This  was  a  double  thrust,  at 
Hall's  former  career  as  a  gambler,  and  the  closeness  of  his 
late  election  vote.) 

"  All  right !  send  'em  up  by  express, — mark  'em  C.  O.  D  " 
(The  previous  speaker  was  the  expressman.) 

"Blank  you!     Git!" 

"  Blank  you !     Come  on !" 

Here  there  was  a  rush  at  the  door,  the  accidental  dis 
charge  of  a  pistol,  and  the  window  was  slammed  down. 
Words  ceased,  deeds  began. 

A  few  hours  before,  Hall  had  removed  his  prisoner  trom 
the  uncertain  tenure  and  accessible  position  of  the  cells 
below  to  the  open  court-room  of  the  second  floor,  inacces 
sible  by  windows,  and  lit  by  a  skylight  in  the  roof,  above 
the  reach  of  the  crowd,  whose  massive  doors  were  barri 
caded  by  benches  and  desks.  A  smaller  door  at  the  side, 
easily  secured,  was  left  open  for  reconnoitring.  The  ap 
proach  to  the  court-room  was  by  a  narrow  stairway,  half 
way  down  whose  length  Gabriel  had  thrust  the  long  court 
room  table  as  a  barricade  to  the  besiegers.  The  lower 
outer  door,  secured  by  the  sheriif  after  the  desertion  of 
his  underlings,  soon  began  to  show  signs  of  weakening 
under  the  vigorous  battery  from  without.  From  the 
landing  the  two  men  watched  it  eagerly.  As  it  slowly 
yielded,  the  sheriif  drew  back  toward  the  side-door  and 
beckoned  Gabriel  to  follow ;  but  with  a  hasty  sign  Gabriel 
suddenly  sprang  forward  and  dropped  beneath  the  table 
as  the  door  with  a  crash  fell  inward,  beaten  from  its 
hinges.  There  was  a  rush  of  trampling  feet  to  the  stair 
way,  a  cry  of  baffled  rage  over  the  impeding  table,  a  sud 
den  scramble  up  and  upon  it,  and  then,  as  if  on  its  own 
volition,  the  long  table  suddenly  reared  itself  on  end,  and, 
staggering  a  moment,  toppled  backward  with  its  clinging 
II.  15* 


174  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HARTS 

human  burden  on  the  heads  of  the  thronging  mass  below. 
There  was  a  cry,  a  sudden  stampede  of  the  Philistines  to 
the  street,  and  Samson,  rising  to  his  feet,  slowly  walked 
to  the  side-door .  and  re-entered  the  court-room.  But  at 
the  same  instant  an  agile  besieger  who,  unnoticed,  had 
crossed  the  Rubicon,  darted  from  his  concealment,  and 
dashed  by  Gabriel  into  the  room.  There  was  a  shout  from 
the  sheriff,  the  door  was  closed  hastily,  a  shot,  and  the 
intruder  fell.  But  the  next  moment  he  staggered  to  his 
knees,  with  outstretched  hands :  "  Hold  up !  I'm  yer  to 
help  ye !" 

It  was  Jack  Hamlin !  haggard,  dusty,  grimy ;  his  gay 
feathers  bedraggled,  his  tall  hat  battered,  his  spotless  shirt 
torn  open  at  the  throat,  his  eyes  and  cheeks  burning  with 
fever,  the  blood  dripping  from  the  bullet-wound  in  his 
leg,  but  still  Jack  Hamlin,  strong  and  audacious.  By  a 
common  instinct  both  men  dropped  their  weapons,  ran  and 
lifted  him  in  their  arms. 

"  There ! — shove  that  chair  under  me !  that'll  do,"  said 
Hamlin,  coolly.  "  We're  even  now,  Joe  Hall :  that  shot 
wiped  out  old  scores,  even  if  it  has  crippled  me  and  lost 
ye  my  valuable  aid.  Dry  up !  and  listen  to  me,  and  then 
leave  me  here  !  There's  but  one  way  of  escape.  It's  up 
there  1"  (he  pointed  to  the  skylight.)  "  The  rear  wall 
hangs  over  the  Wingdam  ditch  and  gully.  Once  on  the 
roof,  you  can  drop  over  with  this  rope,  which  you  must 
unwind  from  my  body,  for  I'm  d — d  if  I  can  do  it  myself. 
Can  you  reach  the  skylight  ?" 

"  There's  a  step-ladder  from  the  gallery,"  said  the  sheriff, 
joyously.  "  But  won't  they  see  us,  and  be  prepared  ?" 

"  Before  they  can  reach  the  gully  by  going  round,  you'll 
be  half  a  mile  away  in  the  woods.  But  what  in  blank  are 
you  waiting  for?  Go!  You  can  hold  on  here  for  ten 
minutes  more  if  they  attack  the  same  point;  but  if  they 


HARTE]  THE  SHERIFF  OF  CALAVERAS.  175 

think  of  the  skylight,  and  fetch  ladders,  you're  gone  in! 
Go." 

There  was  another  rush  on  the  staircase  without ;  the 
surging  of  an  immense  wave  against  the  heavy  folding 
doors,  the  blows  of  pick  and  crowbar,  the  gradual  yield 
ing  of  the  barricade  a  few  inches,  and  the  splintering  of 
benches  by  a  few  pistol-shots  fired  through  the  springing 
crevices  of  the  doors.  And  yet  the  sheriff  hesitated.  Sud 
denly  Gabriel  stooped  down,  lifted  the  wounded  man  to 
his  shoulder  as  if  he  had  been  an  infant,  and,  beckoning 
to  the  sheriif,  started  for  the  gallery.  But  he  had  not 
taken  two  steps  before  he  staggered  and  lapsed  heavily 
against  Hall,  who,  in  his  turn,  stopped  and  clutched  the 
railing.  At  the  same  moment  the  thunder  of  the  be 
siegers  seemed  to  increase ;  not  only  the  door,  but  the 
windows  rattled,  the  heavy  chandelier  fell  with  a  crash, 
carrying  a  part  of  the  plaster  and  the  elaborate  cornice 
with  it,  a  shower  of  bricks  fell  through  the  skylight, 
and  a  cry,  quite  distinct  from  anything  heard  before,  rose 
from  without.  There  was  a  pause  in  the  hall,  and  then 
the  sudden  rush  of  feet  down  the  staircase,  and  all  was 
still  again.  The  three  men  gazed  in  each  other's  whitened 
faces. 

"  An  earthquake,"  said  the  shei-iff. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  Jack.  "  It  gives  us  time. 
Forward !" 

They  reached  the  gallery  and  the  little  step-ladder 
that  led  to  a  door  that  opened  upon  the  roof,  Gabriel  pre 
ceding  with  his  burden.  There  was  another  rush  up 
the  staircase  without  the  court-room,  but  this  time  there 
was  no  yielding  in  the  door:  the  earthquake  that  had 
shaken  the  foundations  and  settled  the  walls  had  sealed 
it  firmly. 

Gabriel  was  first  to  step  out  on  the  roof,  carrying  Jack 


176  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HARTE 

Hamlin.  But  as  he  did  so  another  thrill  ran  through  the 
building,  and  he  dropped  on  his  knees  to  save  himself  from 
falling,  while  the  door  closed  smartly  behind  him.  In 
another  moment  the  shock  had  passed,  and  Gabriel,  put 
ting  down  his  burden,  turned  to  open  the  door  for  the 
sheriff.  But,  to  his  alarm,  it  did  not  yield  to  his  pressure  : 
the  earthquake  had  sealed  it  as  it  had  the  door  below,  and 
Joe  Hall  was  left  a  prisoner. 

It  was  Gabriel's  turn  to  hesitate  and  look  at  his  com  - 
panion.  But  Jack  was  gazing  into  the  street  below.  Then 
he  looked  up  and  said,  "We  must  go  on  now,  Gabriel ;  for 
— for  they've  got  a  ladder !" 

Gabriel  rose  again  to  his  feet  and  lifted  the  wounded 
man.  The  curve  of  the  domed  roof  was  slight.  In  the 
centre,  on  a  rough  cupola  or  base,  the  figure  of  Justice, 
fifteen  feet  high,  rudely  carved  in  wood,  towered  above 
them  with  drawn  sword  and  dangling  scales.  Gabriel 
reached  the  cupola  and  crouched  behind  it,  as  a  shout 
rose  from  the  street  below  that  told  he  was  discovered. 
A  few  shots  were  fired.  One  bullet  embedded  itself  in 
the  naked  blade  of  the  Goddess,  and  another,  with  cruel 
irony,  shattered  the  equanimity  of  her  balance.  "  Un 
wind  the  cord  from  me,"  said  Hamlin.  Gabriel  did  so. 
"Fasten  one  end  to  the  chimney  or  the  statue."  But  the 
chimney  was  levelled  by  the  earthquake,  and  even  the 
statue  was  trembling  on  its  pedestal.  Gabriel  secured 
the  rope  to  an  iron  girder  of  the  skylight,  and,  crawling 
on  the  roof,  dropped  it  cautiously  over  the  gable.  But 
it  was  several  feet  too  short, — too  far  for  a  cripple  to 
drop !  Gabriel  crawled  back  to  Hamlin.  "  You  must  go 
first,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  I  will  hold  the  rope  over  the 
gable.  You  can  trust  me." 

Without  waiting  for  Hamlin's  reply,  he  fastened  the 
rope  under  his  arms  and  half  lifted,  half  dragged  him  to 


HARTE]  THE  SHERIFF  OF  CALAVERAS.  177 

the  gable.  Then,  pressing  his  hand  silently,  he  laid  him 
self  down  and  lowered  the  wounded  man  safely  to  the 
ground.  He  had  recovered  the  rope  again,  and,  crawling 
to  the  cupola,  was  about  to  fasten  the  line  to  the  iron 
girder,  when  something  slowly  rose  above  the  level  of  the 
roof  beyond  him.  The  uprights  of  a  ladder ! 

The  Three  Yoices  had  got  tired  of  waiting  a  reply  to 
their  oft-reiterated  question,  and  had  mounted  the  ladder 
by  way  of  forcing  an  answer  at  the  muzzles  of  their 
revolvers.  They  reached  the  level  of  the  roof,  one  after 
another,  and  again  propounded  their  inquiry.  And  then, 
as  it  seemed  to  their  awe-stricken  fancy,  the  only  figure 
there — the  statue  of  Justice  —  awoke  to  their  appeal. 
Awoke ! — leaned  towards  them,  advanced  its  awful  sword 
and  shook  its  broken  balance,  and  then,  toppling  forward 
with  one  mighty  impulse,  came  down  upon  them,  swept 
them  from  the  ladder,  and  silenced  the  Yoices  forever! 
And  from  behind  its  pedestal  Gabriel  arose,  panting,  pale, 
but  triumphant. 

[The  night  was  spent  by  the  fugitives  in  a  secret  hiding-place,  and 

the  next  morning,  accompanied  by  Gabriel's  young  sister  Oily  and  by 

Hamlin's  negro  servant  Pete,  who  had  joined  them  in  the  mean  time, 

they  resumed  their  flight.     What  followed  we  give  in  the  narrative 

1  of  the  author.] 

Gabriel  rose,  and,  lifting  Mr.  Hamlin  in  his  arms  with 
infinite  care  and  tenderness,  headed  the  quaint  procession. 
Mr.  Hamlin,  perhaps  recognizing  some  absurdity  in  the 
situation,  forbore  exercising  his  querulous  profanity  on 
the  man  who  held  him  helpless  as  an  infant,  and  Oily  and 
Pete  followed  slowly  behind. 

Their  way  led  down  Reservoir  Cafion,  beautiful,  hope 
ful,  and  bracing  in  the  early  morning  air.  A  few  birds, 
awakened  by  the  passing  tread,  started  into  song  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  were  still.  "With  a  cautious  gentleness 
ii. — m 


178  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [ 

habitual  to  the  man,  Gabriel  forbore,  as  he  strode  along, 
to  step  upon  the  few  woodland  blossoms  yet  left  to  the  dry 
summer  woods.  There  was  a  strange  fragrance  in  the  air, 
the  light  odors  liberated  from  a  thousand  nameless  herbs, 
the  faint,  melancholy  spicing  of  dead  leaves.  There  was, 
moreover,  that  sense  of  novelty  which  Nature  always 
brings  with  the  dawn  in  deep  forests ;  a  fancy  that  during 
the  night  the  earth  had  been  created  anew,  and  was  fresh 
from  the  Maker's  hand,  as  yet  untried  by  burden  or  tribu 
lation,  and  guiltless  of  a  Past.  And  so  it  seemed  to  the 
little  caravan — albeit  fleeing  from  danger  and  death — that 
yesterday  and  its  fears  were  far  away,  or  had,  in  some 
unaccountable  way,  shrunk  behind  them  in  the  west  with 
the  swiftly-dwindling  night.  Oily  once  or  twice  strayed 
from  the  trail  to  pick  an  opening  flower  or  lingering  berry ; 
Pete  hummed  to  himself  the  fragment  of  an  old  camp- 
meeting  song. 

And  so  they  walked  on,  keeping  the  rosy  dawn  and  its 
promise  before  them.  From  time  to  time  the  sound  of 
far-off  voices  came  to  them  faintly.  Slowly  the  light 
quickened ;  morning  stole  down  the  hills  upon  them  stealth 
ily,  and  at  last  the  entrance  of  the  cafion  became  dimly 
outlined.  Oily  uttered  a  shout  and  pointed  to  a  black  ob 
ject  moving  backward  and  forward  before  the  opening. 
It  was  the  wagon  and  team  awaiting  them.  Olly's  shout 
was  answered  by  a  whistle  from  the  driver,  and  they 
quickened  their  pace  joyfully;  in  another  moment  they 
would  be  beyond  the  reach  of  danger. 

Suddenly  a  voice  that  seemed  to  start  from  the  ground 
before  them  called  on  Gabriel  to  stop !  He  did  so  uncon 
sciously,  drawing  Hamlin  closer  to  him  with  one  hand, 
and  with  the  other  making  a  broad  protecting  sweep 
toward  Oily.  And  then  a  figure  rose  slowly  from  the 
ditch  at  the  road-side  and  barred  their  passage. 


HARTE]  THE  SHERIFF  OF  CALAVERAS.  179 

It  was  only  a  single  man!  A  small  man,  bespattered 
with  the  slime  of  the  ditch  and  torn  with  brambles ;  a 
man  exhausted  with  fatigue  and  tremulous  with  nervous 
excitement,  but  still  erect  and  threatening.  A  man  whom 
Gabriel  and  Hamlin  instantly  recognized,  even  through 
his  rags  and  exhaustion.  It  was  Joe  Hall, — the  sheriff 
of  Calaveras.  He  held  a  pistol  in  his  right  hand,  even 
while  his  left  exhaustedly  sought  the  support  of  a  tree. 
By  a  common  instinct  both  men  saw  that,  while  the  hand 
was  feeble,  the  muzzle  of  the  weapon  covered  them. 

"  Gabriel  Conroy,  I  want  you,"  said  the  apparition. 

"  He's  got  us  lined !  Drop  me,"  whispered  Hamlin, 
hastily ;  "  drop  me !  I'll  spoil  his  aim." 

But  Gabriel,  by  a  swift,  dexterous  movement  that  seemed 
incompatible  with  his  usual  deliberation,  instantly  trans 
ferred  Hamlin  to  his  other  arm,  and,  with  his  burden  com 
pletely  shielded,  presented  his  own  right  shoulder  squarely 
to  the  muzzle  of  Hall's  revolver. 

"  Gabriel  Conroy,  you  are  my  prisoner,"  repeated  the 
voice. 

Gabriel  did  not  move.  But  over  his  shoulder  as  a  rest 
dropped  the  long,  shining  barrel  of  Jack's  own  favorite 
duelling-pistol,  and  over  it  glanced  the  bright  eye  of  its 
crippled  owner.  The  issue  was  joined  1 

There  was  a  death-like  silence. 

"Go  on!"  said  Jack,  quietly.  "Keep  cool,  Joe.  For 
if  you  miss  him,  you're  gone  in ;  and,  hit  or  miss,  Tve  got 
you  sure !" 

The  barrel  of  Hall's  pistol  wavered  a  moment,  from 
physical  weakness,  but  not  from  fear.  The  great  heart 
behind  it,  though  broken,  was  undaunted. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  the  voice,  fatefully.  "  It's  all  right, 
Jack !  Ye'll  kill  me,  I  know  !  But  ye  can't  help  sayin', 
arter  all,  that  I  did  my  duty  to  Calaveras  as  the  sheriff, 


180  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HART* 

and  'specially  to  them  twenty-five  men  ez  elected  me  over 
Boggs '  I  ain't  goin'  to  let  ye  pass.  I've  been  on  this  yer 
hunt,  up  and  down  this  cafion,  all  night.  Hevin'  no  possy, 
I  reckon  I've  got  to  die  yer  in  my  tracks.  All  right! 
But  ye'll  git  into  thet  wagon  over  my  dead  body,  Jack, — 
over  my  dead  body,  sure." 

Even  as  he  spoke  these  words  he  straightened  himself 
to  his  full  height, — which  was  not  much,  I  fear, — and 
steadied  himself  by  the  tree,  his  weapon  still  advanced  and 
pointing  at  Gabriel,  but  with  such  an  evident  and  hope 
less  contrast  between  his  determination  and  his  evident 
inability  to  execute  it  that  his  attitude  impressed  his 
audience  less  with  his  heroism  than  its  half-pathetic  ab 
surdity. 

Mr.  Hamlin  laughed.  But  even  then  he  suddenly  felt 
the  grasp  of  Gabriel  relax,  found  himself  slipping  to  his 
companion's  feet,  and  the  next  moment  was  deposited 
carefully  but  ignominiously  on  the  ground  by  Gabriel, 
who  strode  quietly  and  composedly  up  to  the  muzzle  of 
the  sheriff's  pistol. 

"  I  am  ready  to  go  with  ye,  Mr.  Hall,"  he  said,  gently, 
putting  the  pistol  aside  with  a  certain  large,  indifferent 
wave  of  the  hand,  "  ready  to  go  with  ye, — now, — at  onct ! 
But  I've  one  little  favor  to  ax  ye.  This  yer  pore  young 
man,  ez  yur  wounded  unbeknownst,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
Hamlin,  who  was  writhing  and  gritting  his  teeth  in  help 
less  rage  and  fury,  "ez  not  to  be  tuk  with  me,  nor  for 
me  I  Thar  ain't  nothin'  to  be  done  to  him.  He  hez  been 
dragged  inter  this  fight.  But  I'm  ready  to  go  with  ye 
now,  Mr.  Hall,  and  am  sorry  you  got  into  the  troubil 
along  o'  me." 


WHITTIER]  PRELUDE  TO  "AMONG  THE  HILLS."  181 

PRELUDE  TO  "AMONG  THE  HILLS." 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

[Whittier  stands  too  high  in  the  ranks  of  American  poets  to  require 
more  than  a  passing  commeDt  at  our  hands ;  and  as  a  philanthropist 
and  reformer  he  occupies  as  elevated  a  position  before  the  American 
people.  Of  wholly  estimable  modern  characters  the  "  Quaker  Poet" 
and  Kalph  Waldo  Emerson  may  be  named  in  connection,  as  men  who 
stand  at  the  high-tide  mark  of  moral  elevation.  But,  while  Emerson 
dwelt  to  some  extent  in  the  clouds,  and  looked  down  on  the  world  from 
afar,  Whittier  has  always  lived  on  the  human  level,  with  a  heart 
overflowing  with  sympathy  and  touched  by  all  the  woes  and  wants 
of  man.  His  best  poems  are  all  marked  by  deep  feeling,  while  in 
poetic  power  they  are  often  of  the  highest  grade  of  merit.  There  is 
nowhere  in  poetry  a  more  clean-cut  and  sharply-outlined  word-picture 
than  that  of  the  "  Life  without  an  Atmosphere,"  in  the  poem  given 
below.  Whittier  was  born  at  Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  in  1808.  His 
family  belonged  to  the  denomination  of  Friends,  in  which  religious 
community  he  has  always  remained.  He  early  identified  himself 
with  the  anti-slavery  party,  edited  a  newspaper  in  its  interest,  and 
was  one  of  the  most  earnest  advocates  of  the  cause,  in  favor  of  which 
many  of  his  poems  were  written.  His  poems  are  nearly  all  of  a  lyrical 
character,  and  are  instinct  with  the  true  spirit  of  the  lyric.] 

ALONG  the  road-side,  like  the  flowers  of  gold 
The  tawny  Incas  for  their  gardens  wrought, 
Heavy  with  sunshine  droops  the  golden-rod, 
And  the  red  pennons  of  the  cardinal-flowers 
Hang  motionless  upon  their  upright  staves. 
The  sky  is  hot  and  hazy,  and  the  wind, 
Wing- weary  with  its  long  flight  from  the  south, 
Unfelt ;  yet,  closely  scanned,  yon  maple  leaf 
With  faintest  motion,  as  one  stirs  in  dreams, 
Confesses  it.     The  locust  by  the  wall 
Stabs  the  noon-silence  with  his  sharp  alarm. 
A  single  hay-cart  down  the  dusty  road 
ii.  16 


182  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [WHITTIKB 

Creaks  slowly,  with  its  driver  fast  asleep 
On  the  load's  top.     Against  the  neighboring  hill, 
Huddled  along  the  stone  wall's  shady  side, 
The  sheep  show  white,  as  if  a  snow-drift  still 
Defied  the  dog-star.     Through  the  open  door 
A  drowsy  smell  of  flowers — gray  heliotrope, 
And  white  sweet  clover,  and  shy  mignonette — 
Comes  faintly  in,  and  silent  chorus  lends 
To  the  pervading  symphony  of  peace. 

No  time  is  this  for  hands  long  overworn 

To  task  their  strength ;  and  (unto  Him  be  praise 

Who  giveth  quietness !)  the  stress  and  strain 

Of  years  that  did  the  work  of  centuries 

Have  ceased,  and  we  can  draw  our  breath  once  more 

Freely  and  full.     So,  as  yon  harvesters 

Make  glad  their  nooning  underneath  the  elms 

With  tale  and  riddle  and  old  snatch  of  song, 

I  lay  aside  grave  themes,  and  idly  turn 

The  leaves  of  memory's  sketch-book,  dreaming  o'er 

Old  summer  pictures  of  the  quiet  hills, 

And  human  life,  as  quiet,  at  their  feet. 

And  yet  not  idly  all.     A  farmer's  son, 

Proud  of  field-lore  and  harvest-craft,  and  feeling 

All  their  fine  possibilities,  how  rich 

And  restful  even  poverty  and  toil 

Become  when  beauty,  harmony,  and  love 

Sit  at  their  humble  hearth  as  angels  sat 

At  evening  in  the  patriarch's  tent,  when  man 

Makes  labor  noble,  and  his  farmer's  frock 

The  symbol  of  a  Christian  chivalry 

Tender  and  just  and  generous  to  her 

Who  clothes  with  grace  all  duty, — still,  I  know 


'WHITTIER]  PRELUDE  TO  "AMONG  THE  HILLS."  183 

Too  well  the  picture  has  another  side, — 
How  wearily  the  grind  of  toil  goes  on 
Where  love  is  wanting,  how  the  eye  and  ear 
And  heart  are  starved  amidst  the  plenitude 
Of  nature,  and  how  hard  and  colorless 
Is  life  without  an  atmosphere.     I  look 
Across  the  lapse  of  half  a  century, 
And  call  to  mind  old  homesteads,  where  no  flower 
Told  that  the  spring  had  come,  but  evil  weeds, 
Nightshade  and  rough-leaved  burdock,  in  the  place 
.  Of  the  sweet  door- way  greeting  of  the  rose 
And  honeysuckle,  where  the  house-walls  seemed 
Blistering  in  sun,  without  a  tree  or  vine 
To  cast  the  tremulous  shadow  of  its  leaves 
Across  the  curtainless  windows  from  whose  panes 
Fluttered  the  signal  rags  of  shiftlessness  ; 
Within,  the  cluttered  kitchen-floor,  unwashed 
(Broom-clean  I  think  they  called  it) ;  the  best  room 
Stifling  with  cellar  damp,  shut  from  the  air 
In  hot  midsummer,  bookless,  pictureless 
Save  the  inevitable  sampler  hung 
Over  the  fireplace,  or  a  mourning  piece, 
A  green-haired  woman,  peony-cheeked,  beneath 
Impossible  willows ;  the  wide-throated  hearth 
Bristling  with  faded  pine  boughs  half  concealing 
The  piled-up  rubbish  at  the  chimney's  back  ; 
And,  in  sad  keeping  with  all  things  about  them, 
Shrill,  querulous  women,  sour  and  sullen  men, 
Untidy,  loveless,  old  before  their  time, 
With  scarce  a  human  interest  save  their  own 
Monotonous  round  of  small  economies, 
Or  the  poor  scandal  of  the  neighborhood  ; 
Blind  to  the  beauty  everywhere  revealed, 
Treading  the  May-flowers  with  regardless  feet; 


184  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [WHITTIEB 

For  them  the  song-sparrow  and  the  bobolink 
Sang  not,  nor  winds  made  music  in  the  leaves  ; 
For  them  in  vain  October's  holocaust 
Burned,  gold  and  crimson,  over  all  the  hills, 
The  sacramental  mystery  of  the  woods ; 
Church-goers,  fearful  of  the  unseen  Powers, 
But  grumbling  over  pulpit-tax  and  pew-rent, 
Saving,  as  shrewd  economists,  their  souls 
And  winter  pork  with  the  least  possible  outlay 
Of  salt  and  sanctity ;  in  daily  life 
Showing  as  little  actual  comprehension 
Of  Christian  charity  and  love  and  duty 
As  if  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  had  been 
Outdated  like  a  last  year's  almanac  : 
Eich  in  broad  woodlands  and  in  half-tilled  fields, 
And  yet  so  pinched  and  bare  and  comfortless, 
The  veriest  straggler  limping  on  his  rounds, 
The  sun  and  air  his  sole  inheritance, 
Laughed  at  a  poverty  that  paid  its  taxes, 
And  hugged  his  rags  in  self-complacency ! 

Not  such  should  be  the  homesteads  of  a  land 
Where  whoso  wisely  wills  and  acts  may  dwell 
As  king  and  lawgiver,  in  broad-acred  state, 
"With  beauty,  art,  taste,  culture,  books,  to  make 
His  hours  of  leisure  richer  than  a  life 
Of  fourscore  to  the  barons  of  old  time. 
Our  yeoman  should  be  equal  to  his  home 
Set  in  the  fair,  green  valleys,  purple-walled, 
A  man  to  match  his  mountains,  not  to  creep 
Dwarfed  and  abased  below  them.     I  would  fain 
In  this  light  way  (of  which  I  needs  must  own, 
With  the  knife-grinder  of  whom  Canning  sings, 
"  Story,  God  bless  you !     I  have  none  to  tell  you !") 


LIN-COLK]         SECOND  INAUGURAL  ADDRESS.  185 

Invite  the  eye  to  see  and  heart  to  feel 

The  beauty  and  the  joy  within  their  reach, — 

Home,  and  home  loves,  and  the  beatitudes 

Of  nature  free  to  all.     Haply  in  years 

That  wait  to  take  the  places  of  our  own, 

Heard  where  some  breezy  balcony  looks  down 

On  happy  homes,  or  where  the  lake  in  the  moon 

Sleeps  dreaming  of  the  mountains,  fair  as  Ruth, 

In  the  old  Hebrew  pastoral,  at  the  feet 

Of  Boaz,  even  this  simple  lay  of  mine 

May  seem  the  burden  of  a  prophecy, 

Finding  its  late  fulfilment  in  a  change 

Slow  as  the  oak's  growth,  lifting  manhood  up 

Through  broader  culture,  finer  manners,  love, 

And  reverence,  to  the  level  of  the  hills. 


SECOND  INAUGURAL  ADDRESS. 

ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

[The  reputation  of  Abraham  Lincoln  is  not  based  upon  ability  in 
literature,  yet  he  occupies  a  recognized  position  in  this  field  by  his 
orations,  which  are  characterized  by  a  forcible  directness  of  thought, 
and  a  grasp  of  the  true  nature  and  spirit  of  democratic  institutions, 
which  will  give  them  a  long  life  in  the  history  of  American  oratory. 
We  refer  in  particular  to  the  two  short  orations  given  below,  the 
"Second  Inaugural"  and  the  "  Gettysburg  Address,"  which  contain 
sentiments  well  worthy  to  become  the  accepted  mottoes  of  the  Ameri 
can  republic.] 

FELLOW-COUNTRYMEN, — At  this  second  appearing  to  take 
the  oath  of  the  Presidential  office,  there  is  less  occasion 
for  an  extended  address  than  there  was  at  the  first.    Then, 
TI.—  16* 


186  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

a  statement,  somewhat  in  detail,  of  a  course  to  be  pursued 
seemed  very  fitting  and  proper.  Now,  at  the  expiration 
of  four  years,  during  which  public  declarations  have  been 
constantly  called  forth  on  every  point  and  phase  of  the 
great  contest  which  still  absorbs  the  attention  and  en 
grosses  the  energies  of  the  nation,  little  that  is  new  could 
be  presented.  The  progress  of  our  arms,  upon  which  all 
else  chiefly  depends,  is  as  well  known  to  the  public  as  to 
myself,  and  it  is,  I  trust,  reasonably  satisfactory  and  en 
couraging  to  all.  With  high  hope  for  the  future,  no  pre 
diction  in  regard  to  it  is  ventured. 

On  the  occasion  corresponding  to  this,  four  years  ago, 
all  thoughts  were  anxiously  directed  to  an  impending  civil 
war.  All  dreaded  it,  all  sought  to  avoid  it.  While  the 
inaugural  address  was  being  delivered  from  this  place,  de 
voted  altogether  to  saving  the  Union  without  war,  insur 
gent  agents  were  in  the  city,  seeking  to  destroy  it  without 
war, — seeking  to  dissolve  the  Union,  and  divide  the  effects 
by  negotiation.  Both  parties  deprecated  war ;  but  one  of 
them  would  make  war  rather  than  let  the  nation  survive, 
and  the  other  would  accept  war  rather  than  let  it  perish  ; 
and  the  war  came. 

One-eighth  of  the  whole  population  were  colored  slaves, 
not  distributed  generally  over  the  Union,  but  localized  in 
the  southern  part  of  it.  These  slaves  constituted  a  pecu 
liar  and  powerful  interest.  All  knew  that  this  interest 
was  somehow  the  cause  of  the  war.  To  strengthen,  per 
petuate,  and  extend  this  interest  was  the  object  for  which 
the  insurgents  would  rend  the  Union  by  war,  while  the 
government  claimed  no  right  to  do  more  than  to  restrict 
the  territorial  enlargement  of  it. 

Neither  party  expected  for  the  war  the  magnitude  or 
the  duration  which  it  has  already  attained.  Neither  an 
ticipated  that  the  cause  of  the  conflict  might  cease  with. 


LINCOLN]         SECOND  INAUGURAL  ADDRESS.  187 

or  even  before  the  conflict  itself  should  cease.  Each 
looked  for  an  easier  triumph,  and  a  result  less  funda 
mental  and  astounding.  Both  read  the  same  Bible,  and 
pray  to  the  same  God,  and  each  invokes  His  aid  against 
the  other.  It  may  seem  strange  that  any  men  should 
dare  to  ask  a  just  God's  assistance  in  wringing  their  bread 
from  the  sweat  of  other  men's  faces.  But  let  us  judge 
not.  that  we  be  not  judged.  The  prayer  of  both  could 
not  be  answered.  That  of  neither  has  been  answered 
fully.  The  Almighty  has  his  own  purposes.  "  Woe  unto 
the  world  because  of  offences,  for  it  must  needs  be  that 
offences  come ;  but  woe  to  that  man  by  whom  the  offence 
cometh." 

If  we  shall  suppose  that  American  slavery  is  one  of 
these  offences,  which,  in  the  providence  of  God,  must 
needs  come,  but  which,  having  continued  through  his  ap 
pointed  time,  he  now  wills  to  remove,  and  that  he  gives  to 
both  North  and  South  this  terrible  war  as  the  woe  due  to 
those  by  whom  the  offence  came,  shall  we  discern  therein 
any  departure  from  those  divine  attributes  which  the  be 
lievers  in  a  living  God  always  ascribe  to  him  ? 

Fondly  do  we  hope,  fervently  do  we  pray,  that  this 
mighty  scourge  of  war  may  speedily  pass  away.  Yet,  if 
God  wills  that  it  continue  until  all  the  wealth  piled  by  the 
bondsman's  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  unrequited 
toil  shall  be  sunk,  and  until  every  drop  of  blood  drawn 
with  the  lash  shall  be  paid  by  another  drawn  with  the 
sword,  as  was  said  three  thousand  years  ago,  so  still  it 
must  be  said  that  "  the  judgments  of  the  Lord  are  true 
and  righteous  altogether." 

"With  malice  towards  none,  with  charity  for  all,  with 
firmness  in  the  right  as  God  gives  us  to  see  the  right,  let 
us  strive  on,  to  finish  the  work  we  are  in,  to  bind  up  the 
nation's  wounds,  to  care  for  him  who  shall  have  borne  the 


188  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [LINCOLN 

battle,  and  for  his  widow  and  his  orphans,  to  do  all  which 
may  achieve  and  cherish  a  just  and  a  lasting  peace  among 
ourselves  and  with  all  nations. 


GETTYSBURG  ORATION. 

Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought 
forth  upon  this  continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in  Lib 
erty,  and  dedicated  to  the  proposition  that  all  men  are 
created  equal. 

Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing 
whether  that  nation,  or  any  nation  so  conceived  and  so 
dedicated,  can  long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great  battle 
field  of  that  war.  We  are  met  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  it 
as  the  final  resting-place  of  those  who  here  gave  their 
lives  that  that  nation  might  live.  It  is  altogether  fitting 
and  proper  that  we  should  do  this. 

But,  in  a  larger  sense,  we  cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot 
consecrate,  we  cannot  hallow,  this  ground.  The  brave 
men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here,  have  conse 
crated  it  far  above  our  power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world 
will  little  note  nor  long  remember  what  we  say  here,  but 
it  can  never  forget  what  they  did  here.  It  is  for  us,  the 
living,  rather  to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished  work 
that  they  have  thus  far  so  nobly  carried  on.  It  is  rather 
for  us  to  be  here  dedicated  to  the  great  task  remaining 
before  us ;  that  from  these  honored  dead  we  take  increased 
devotion  to  the  cause  for  which  they  here  gave  the  last 
full  measure  of  devotion ;  that  we  here  highly  resolve  that 
the  dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain,  that  the  nation  shall, 
under  God,  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom,  and  that  govern 
ment  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  and  for  the  people,  shall 
not  perish  from  the  earth. 


KENNAN]   WINTER  LIFE  AND  SCENERY  IN  SIBERIA.    189 
WINTER  LIFE  AND  SCENERY  IN  SIBERIA. 

GEORGE  KENNAN. 

[The  failure  of  the  first  Atlantic  telegraph  cable  led  the  Western 
Union  Telegraph  Company  to  attempt  the  arduous  undertaking  of 
reaching  Europe  by  a  telegraphic  line  through  British  America  and 
Siberia,  and  a  party  of  engineers  was  sent  to  the  latter  country  in  1865 
to  make  the  preliminary  explorations.  The  adventures  of  these  pio 
neers  are  described  in  a  highly  interesting  manner  by  George  Kennan, 
one  of  their  number,  in  his  "  Tent  Life  in  Siberia,"  which  is  perhaps 
the  best  description  extant  of  the  dreary  northwest  of  that  country. 
It  may  be  stated  here  that,  after  two  or  three  years  of  hard  engineering 
labor,  the  enterprise  was  abandoned.  We  copy  the  author's  graphic 
narrative  of  a  sleighing  expedition  in  search  of  a  party  of  Americans 
who  had  been  landed  in  Northwestern  Siberia  months  before,  and  had 
been  snowed  in.  To  this  we  add  a  spirited  account  of  a  remarkably 
brilliant  display  of  the  Arctic  aurora.] 

ON  the  eleventh  day  after  our  departure  from  Anadyrsk, 
toward  the  close  of  the  long  twilight  which  succeeds  an 
Arctic  day,  our  little  train  of  eleven  sledges  drew  near  the 
place  where,  from  Chookchee  accounts,  we  expected  to 
find  the  long-exiled  party  of  Americans.  The  night  was 
clear,  still,  and  intensely  cold,  the  thermometer  at  sunset 
marking  forty-four  degrees  below  zero,  and  sinking  rap 
idly  to  — 50°  as  the  rosy  flush  in  the  west  grew  fainter 
and  fainter  and  darkness  settled  down  upon  the  vast 
steppe.  Many  times  before,  in  Siberia  and  Kamtchatka, 
I  had  seen  Nature  in  her  sterner  moods  and  winter  garb ; 
but  never  before  had  the  elements  of  cold,  barrenness,  and 
desolation  seemed  to  combine  into  a  picture  so  dreary  as 
the  one  which  was  presented  to  us  that  night  near  Behr- 
ing's  Straits.  Far  as  the  eye  could  pierce  the  gathering 
gloom  in  every  direction  lay  the  barren  steppe,  like  a 
boundless  ocean  of  snow,  blown  into  long  wave-like  ridges 


190  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

by  previous  storms.  There  was  not  a  tree,  nor  a  bush, 
nor  any  sign  of  animal  or  vegetable  life,  to  show  that  wo 
were  not  travelling  on  a  frozen  ocean.  All  was  silence 
and  desolation.  The  country  seemed  abandoned  by  God 
and  man  to  the  Arctic  Spirit,  whose  trembling  banners  of 
auroral  light  flared  out  fitfully  in  the  north  in  token  of 
his  conquest  and  dominion.  About  eight  o'clock  the  full 
moon  rose  huge  and  red  in  the  east,  casting  a  lurid  glare 
over  the  vast  field  of  snow ;  but,  as  if  it  too  were  under 
the  control  of  the  Arctic  Spirit,  it  was  nothing  more  than 
the  mockery  of  a  moon,  and  was  constantly  assuming  the 
most  fantastic  and  varied  shapes.  Now  it  extended  itself 
laterally  into  a  long  ellipse,  then  gathered  itself  up  again 
into  the  semblance  of  a  huge  red  urn,  lengthened  out  to  a 
long,  perpendicular  bar  with  rounded  ends,  and  finally  be 
came  triangular.  It  can  hardly  be  imagined  what  added 
wildness  and  strangeness  this  blood-red  distorted  moon 
gave  to  a  scene  already  wild  and  strange.  "We  seemed  to 
have  entered  upon  some  frozen,  abandoned  world,  where 
all  the  ordinary  laws  and  phenomena  of  nature  were  sus 
pended,  where  animal  and  vegetable  life  were  extinct,  and 
from  which  even  the  favor  of  the  Creator  had  been  with 
drawn.  The  intense  cold,  the  solitude,  the  oppressive 
silence,  and  the  red,  gloomy  moonlight,  like  the  glare  of 
a  distant  but  mighty  conflagration,  all  united  to  excite  in 
the  mind  feelings  of  awe,  which  were  perhaps  intensified 
by  the  consciousness  that  never  before  had  any  human 
being,  save  a  few  "Wandering  Chookchees,  ventured  in 
winter  upon  these  domains  of  the  Frost  King.  There  was 
none  of  the  singing,  joking,  and  hallooing  with  which  our 
drivers  were  wont  to  enliven  a  night-journey.  Stolid  and 
unimpressible  though  they  might  be,  there  was  something 
in  the  scene  which  even  they  felt  and  were  silent.  Hour 
after  hour  wore  slowly  and  wearily  away  until  midnight. 


KENNAN]    WINTER  LIFE  AND  SCENERY  IN  SIBERIA.    191 

We  had  passed  by  more  than  twenty  miles  the  point  on 
the  river  where  the  party  of  Americans  was  supposed  to 
be ;  but  no  sign  had  been  found  of  the  subterranean  house 
or  its  projecting  stove-pipe,  and  the  great  steppe  still 
stretched  away  before  us,  white,  ghastly,  and  illimitable 
as  ever.  For  nearly  twenty-four  hours  we  had  travelled 
without  a  single  stop,  night  or  day,  except  one  at  sunrise 
to  rest  our  tired  dogs ;  and  the  intense  cold,  fatigue,  anxiety, 
and  lack  of  warm  food  began  at  last  to  tell  upon  our  silent 
but  suffering  men.  We  realized  for  the  first  time  the  haz 
ardous  nature  of  the  adventure  in  which  we  were  en 
gaged,  and  the  almost  absolute  hopelessness  of  the  search 
which  we  were  making  for  the  lost  American  party.  We 
had  not  one  chance  in  a  hundred  of  finding  at  midnight 
on  that  vast  waste  of  snow  a  little  buried  hut,  whose  loca 
tion  we  did  not  know  within  fifty  miles,  and  of  whose  very 
existence  we  were  by  no  means  certain.  Who  could  tell 
whether  the  Americans  had  not  abandoned  their  subter 
ranean  house  two  months  before,  and  removed  with  some 
friendly  natives  to  a  more  comfortable  and  sheltered  situ 
ation  ?  We  had  heard  nothing  from  them  later  than  De 
cember  1,  and  it  was  now  February.  They  might  in 
that  time  have  gone  a  hundred  miles  down  the  coast  look 
ing  for  a  settlement,  or  have  wandered  far  back  into  the 
interior  with  a  band  of  Eeindeer  Chookchees.  It  was  not 
probable  that  they  would  have  spent  four  months  in  that 
dreary,  desolate  region  without  making  an  effort  to  escape. 
Even  if  they  were  still  in  their  old  camp,  however,  how 
were  we  to  find  them  ?  We  might  have  passed  their  little 
underground  hut  unobserved  hours  before,  and  might  now 
be  going  farther  and  farther  away  from  it,  from  wood,  and 
from  shelter.  It  had  seemed  a  very  easy  thing,  before  we 
left  Anadyrsk,  to  simply  go  down  the  river  until  we  came 
to  a  house  on  the  bank  or  saw  a  stove-pipe  sticking  out 


192  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

of  a  snow-drift ;  but  now,  two  hundred  and  fifty  or  three 
hundred  miles  from  the  settlement,  in  a  temperature  of 
fifty  degrees  below  zero,  when  our  lives  perhaps  depended 
upon  finding  that  little  buried  hut,  we  realized  how  wild 
had  been  our  anticipations  and  how  faint  were  our  pros 
pects  of  success.  The  nearest  wood  was  more  than  fifty 
miles  behind  us,  and  in  our  chilled  and  exhausted  condi 
tion  we  dared  not  camp  without  a  fire.  We  must  go  either 
forward  or  back, — find  the  hut  within  four  hours,  or  aban 
don  the  search  and  return  as  rapidly  as  possible  to  the 
nearest  wood.  Our  dogs  were  beginning  already  to  show 
unmistakable  signs  of  exhaustion,  and  their  feet,  swollen 
with  long  travel,  had  cracked  open  between  the  toes  and 
were  now  spotting  the  white  snow  with  blood  at  every 
step.  Unwilling  to  give  up  the  search  while  there  re 
mained  any  hope,  we  still  went  on  to  the  eastward,  along 
the  edges  of  high,  bare  bluffs  skirting  the  river,  separating 
our  sledges  as  widely  as  possible,  and  extending  our  line 
so  as  to  cover  a  greater  extent  of  ground.  A  full  moon, 
now  high  in  the  heavens,  lighted  up  the  vast,  lonely  plain 
on  the  north  side  of  the  river  as  brilliantly  as  day ;  but  its 
whiteness  was  unbroken  by  any  dark  object,  save  here 
and  there  little  hillocks  of  moss  and  swamp  grass  from 
which  the  snow  had  been  swept  by  furious  winds. 

We  were  all  suffering  severely  from  cold,  and  our  fur 
hoods  and  the  breasts  of  our  fur  coats  were  masses  of 
white  frost  which  had  been  formed  by  our  breaths.  I  had 
put  on  two  heavy  reindeer-skin  kookhlankas,  weighing 
in  the  aggregate  about  thirty  pounds,  belted  them  tightly 
about  the  waist  with  a  sash,  drawn  their  thick  hoods  up 
over  my  head  and  covered  my  face  with  a  squirrel-skin 
mask,  but,  in  spite  of  all,  I  could  only  keep  from  freezing 
by  running  beside  my  sledge.  Dodd  said  nothing,  but 
was  evidently  disheartened  and  half  frozen;  while  the 


KKNNAN]   WINTER  LIFE  AND  SCENERY  IN  SIBERIA.    193 

natives  sat  silently  upon  their  sledges,  as  if  they  expected 
nothing  and  hoped  for  nothing.  Only  Gregorie  and  an 
old  Chookchee  whom  we  had  brought  with  us  as  a  guide 
showed  any  energy  or  seemed  to  have  any  confidence  in 
the  ultimate  discovery  of  the  party.  They  went  on  in 
advance,  digging  everywhere  in  the  snow  for  wood,  ex 
amining  carefully  the  banks  of  the  river,  and  making 
occasional  detours  into  the  snowy  plain  to  the  northward. 
At  last  Dodd,  without  saying  anything  to  me,  gave  his 
spiked  stick  to  one  of  the  natives,  drew  his  head  and  arms 
into  the  body  of  his  fur  coat,  and  lay  down  upon  his 
sledge  to  sleep,  regardless  of  my  remonstrances,  and  pay 
ing  no  attention  whatever  to  my  questions.  He  was 
evidently  becoming  stupefied  by  the  deadly  chill,  which 
struck  through  the  heaviest  furs,  and  which  was  con 
stantly  making  insidious  advances  from  the  extremities 
to  the  seat  of  life.  He  probably  would  not  live  through 
the  night  unless  he  could  be  roused,  and  might  not  live 
two  hours.  Discouraged  by  his  apparently  hopeless  con 
dition,  and  exhausted  by  the  constant  struggle  to  keep 
warm,  I  finally  lost  all  hope,  and  reluctantly  decided  to 
abandon  the  search  and  camp.  By  stopping  where  we 
were,  breaking  up  one  of  our  sledges  for  firewood,  and 
boiling  a  little  tea,  I  thought  that  Dodd  might  be  revived ; 
but  to  go  on  to  the  eastward  seemed  to  be  needlessly 
risking  the  lives  of  all  without  any  apparent  prospect  of 
discovering  the  party  or  of  finding  wood.  I  had  just 
given  the  order  to  the  natives  nearest  me  to  camp,  when 
I  thought  I  heard  a  faint  halloo  in  the  distance.  All  the 
blood  in  my  veins  suddenly  rushed  with  a  great  throb 
to  the  heart  as  I  threw  back  my  fur  hood  and  listened. 
Again  a  faint,  long-drawn  cry  came  back  through  the 
still  atmosphere  from  the  sledges  in  advance.  My  dogs 
pricked  up  their  ears  at  the  startling  sound  and  dashed 
ii.— i  n  17 


194  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

eagerly  forward,  and  in  a  moment  I  came  upon  several 
of  our  leading  drivers  gathered  in  a  little  group  around 
what  seemed  to  be  an  old  overturned  whale-boat  which 
lay  half  buried  in  snow  by  the  river's  bank.  The  foot 
print  in  the  sand  was  not  more  suggestive  to  Robinson 
Crusoe  than  was  this  weather-beaten,  abandoned  whale- 
boat  to  us,  for  it  showed  that  somewhere  in  the  vicinity 
there  was  shelter  and  life.  One  of  the  men  a  few 
moments  before  had  driven  over  some  dark,  hard  object 
in  the  snow,  which  he  at  first  supposed  to  be  a  log  of 
drift-wood ;  but,  upon  stopping  to  examine  it,  he  found  it 
to  be  an  American  whale-boat.  If  ever  we  thanked  God 
from  the  bottom  of  our  hearts,  it  was  then.  Brushing 
away  with  my  mitten  the  long  fringe  of  frost  which  hung 
to  my  eyelashes,  I  looked  eagerly  around  for  a  house; 
but  Gregorie  had  been  quicker  than  I,  and  a  joyful  shout 
from  a  point  a  little  farther  down  the  river  announced 
another  discovery.  I  left  my  dogs  to  go  where  they  chose, 
threw  away  my  spiked  stick,  and  started  at  a  run  in  the 
direction  of  the  sound.  In  a  moment  I  saw  Gregorie  and 
the  old  Chookchee  standing  beside  a  low  mound  of  snow, 
about  a  hundred  yards  back  from  the  river-bank,  exam 
ining  some  dark  object  which  projected  from  its  smooth 
white  surface.  It  was  the  long-talked-of,  long-looked- for 
stove-pipe !  The  Anadyr  River  party  was  found. 

The  unexpected  discovery  late  at  night  of  this  party 
of  countrymen,  when  we  had  just  given  up  all  hope  of 
shelter,  and  almost  of  life,  was  a  godsend  to  our  disheart 
ened  spirits,  and  I  hardly  knew  in  my  excitement  what  I 
did.  I  remember  now  walking  hastily  back  and  forth  in 
front  of  the  snow-drift,  repeating  softly  to  myself  at  every 
step,  "  Thank  God !  thank  God !"  but  at  the  time  1  was 
not  conscious  of  anything  except  the  great  fact  of  our 
safety.  Dodd,  who  had  been  roused  from  his  half-frozen 


KENNAN]    WINTER  LIFE  AND  SCENERY  IN  SIBERIA.    195 

lethargy  by  the  strong  excitement  of  the  discovery,  now 
suggested  that  we  try  and  find  the  entrance  to  the  house 
and  get  in  as  quickly  as  possible,  as  he  was  nearly  dead 
with  the  cold  and  exhaustion.  There  was  no  sound  of 
life  in  the  lonely  snow-drift  before  us,  and  the  inmates,  if 
it  had  any,  were  evidently  asleep.  Seeing  no  sign  any 
where  of  a  door,  I  walked  up  on  the  drift,  and  shouted 
down  through  the  stove-pipe,  in  tremendous  tones,  "  Halloo 
the  house!"  A  startled  voice  from  under  my  feet  de 
manded,  "  Who's  there  ?" 

"Come  out  and  see !  Where's  the  door?" 
My  voice  seemed  to  the  astounded  Americans  inside  to 
come  out  of  the  stove, — a  phenomenon  which  was  utterly 
unparalleled  in  all  their  previous  experience;  but  they 
reasoned  very  correctly  that  any  stove  which  could  ask 
in  good  English  for  the  door  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
had  an  indubitable  right  to  be  answered;  and  they  re 
plied  in  a  hesitating  and  half-frightened  tone  that  the 
door  was  "  on  the  southeast  corner."  This  left  us  about 
as  wise  as  before.  In  the  first  place,  we  did  not  know 
which  way  southeast  was ;  and  in  the  second,  a  snow 
drift  could  not  properly  be  described  as  having  a  corner. 
I  started  around  the  stove-pipe,  however,  in  a  circle,  with 
the  hope  of  finding  some  sort  of  an  entrance.  The  in 
mates  had  dug  a  deep  ditch  or  trench  about  thirty  feet 
in  length  for  a  door-way,  and  had  covered  it  over  with 
sticks  and  reindeer-skins  to  keep  out  the  drifting  snow. 
Stepping  incautiously  upon  this  frail  roof,  I  fell  through, 
just  as  one  of  the  startled  men  was  coming  out  in  his 
shirt  and  drawers,  holding  a  candle  above  his  head,  and 
peering  through  the  darkness  of  the  tunnel  to  see  who 
would  enter.  The  sudden  descent  through  the  roof  of 
such  an  apparition  as  I  knew  myself  to  be,  was  not  cal- 
culated  to  restore  the  steadiness  of  startled  nerves.  I 


196  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [KENNA» 

had  on  two  heavy  "  kookhlankas,"  which  swelled  out  my 
figure  to  gigantic  proportions,  two  thick  reindeer-skin 
hoods  with  long,  frosty  fringes  of  black  bear-skin  were 
pulled  up  over  my  head,  a  squirrel-skin  mask  frozen  into 
a  sheet  of  ice  concealed  my  face,  and  nothing  but  the  eyes 
peering  out  through  tangled  masses  of  frosty  hair  showed 
that  the  furs  contained  a  human  being.  The  man  took 
two  or  three  frightened  steps  backward  and  nearly  dropped 
his  candle.  I  came  in  such  a  "  questionable  shape"  that 
he  might  well  demand  "  whether  my  intents  were  wicked 
or  charitable."  As  I  recognized  his  face,  however,  and 
addressed  him  again  in  English,  he  stopped ;  and,  tearing 
off  my  mask  and  fur  hoods,  I  spoke  my  name.  Never 
was  there  such  rejoicing  as  that  which  then  took  place  in 
that  little  underground  cellar,  as  I  recognized  in  the  ex 
iled  party  two  of  my  old  comrades  and  friends,  to  whom 
eight  months  before  I  had  bid  good-by  as  the  Olga  sailed 
out  of  the  Golden  Gate  of  San  Francisco.  I  little  thought, 
when  I  shook  hands  with  Harder  and  Robinson  then,  that 
I  should  next  meet  them  at  night  in  a  little  snow-covered 
cellar  on  the  great  lonely  steppes  of  the  lower  Anadyr. 

A   SIBERIAN   AURORA. 

Among  the  few  pleasures  which  reward  the  traveller 
for  the  hardships  and  dangers  of  life  in  the  far  north, 
there  are  none  which  are  brighter  or  longer  remembered 
than  the  magnificent  auroral  displays  which  occasionally 
illumine  the  darkness  of  the  long  polar  night  and  light 
up  with  a  celestial  glory  the  whole  blue  vault  of  heaven. 
No  other  natural  phenomenon  is  so  grand,  so  mysterious, 
BO  terrible  in  its  unearthly  splendor,  as  this :  the  veil 
which  conceals  from  mortal  eyes  the  glory  of  the  eternal 
throne  seems  drawn  aside,  and  the  awed  beholder  is  lifted 


KBNNAN]   WINTER  LIFE  AND  SCENERY  IN  SIBERIA.    197 

out  of  the  atmosphere  of  his  daily  life  into  the  immediate 
presence  of  God. 

On  the  26th  of  February,  while  we  were  all  yet  living 
together  at  Anadyrsk,  there  occurred  one  of  the  grandest 
displays  of  the  Arctic  aurora  which  had  been  observed 
there  for  more  than  fifty  years,  and  which  exhibited  such 
unusual  and  extraordinary  brilliancy  that  even  the  natives 
were  astonished.  It  was  a  cold,  dark,  but  clear  winter's 
night,  and  the  sky  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  evening 
showed  no  signs  of  the  magnificent  illumination  which 
was  already  being  prepared.  A  few  streamers  wavered 
now  and  then  in  the  north,  and  a  faint  radiance  like  that 
of  the  rising  moon  shone  above  the  dark  belt  of  shrubbery 
which  bordered  the  river ;  but  this  was  a  common  occur 
rence,  and  it  excited  no  notice  or  remark.  Late  in  the 
evening,  just  as  we  were  preparing  to  go  to  bed,  Dodd 
happened  to  go  out  of  doors  for  a  moment  to  look  after 
his  dogs  ;  but  no  sooner  had  he  reached  the  outer  door  of 
the  entry  than  he  came  rushing  back,  his  face  ablaze  with 
excitement,  shouting,  "Kennan!  Robinson!  Come  out, 
quick !"  "With  a  vague  impression  that  the  village  must 
be  on  fire,  I  sprang  up,  and,  without  stopping  to  put  on 
any  furs,  ran  hastily  out,  followed  closely  by  Eobinson, 
Harder,  and  Smith.  As  we  emerged  into  the  open  air 
there  burst  suddenly  upon  our  startled  eyes  the  grandest 
exhibition  of  vivid,  dazzling  light  and  color  of  which  the 
mind  can  conceive.  The  whole  universe  seemed  to  be  on 
fire.  A  broad  arch  of  brilliant  prismatic  colors  spanned 
the  heavens  from  east  to  west  like  a  gigantic  rainbow, 
with  a  long  fringe  of  crimson  and  yellow  streamers 
stretching  up  from  its  convex  edge  to  the  very  zenith. 
At  short  intervals  of  one  or  two  seconds,  wide,  luminous 
bands,  parallel  with  the  arch,  rose  suddenly  out  of  the 
northern  horizon  and  swept  with  a  swift,  steady  majesty 

II.  17* 


198  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

across  the  whole  heavens,  like  long  breakers  of  phospho 
rescent  light  rolling  in  from  some  limitless  ocean  of  space. 
Every  portion  of  the  vast  arch  was  momentarily  wa 
vering,  trembling,  and  changing  color,  and  the  brilliant 
streamers  which  fringed  its  edge  swept  back  and  forth  in 
great  curves,  like  the  fiery  sword  of  the  angel  at  the  gate 
of  Eden.  In  a  moment  the  vast  auroral  rainbow,  with  all 
its  wavering  streamers,  began  to  move  slowly  up  towards 
the  zenith,  and  a  second  arch  of  equal  brilliancy  formed 
directly  under  it,  shooting  up  another  long,  serried  row  of 
slender  colored  lances  toward  the  North  Star,  like  a  bat 
talion  of  the  celestial  host  presenting  arms  to  its  com 
manding  angel.  Every  instant  the  display  increased  in 
unearthly  grandeur.  The  luminous  bands  revolved  swiftly, 
like  the  spokes  of  a  great  wheel  of  light,  across  the 
heavens ;  the  streamers  hurried  back  and  forth  with  swift, 
tremulous  motion  from  the  ends  of  the  arches  to  the  centre, 
and  now  and  then  a  great  wave  of  crimson  would  surge 
up  from  the  north  and  fairly  deluge  the  whole  sky  with 
color,  tingeing  the  white,  snowy  earth  far  and  wide  with 
its  rosy  reflection.  But  as  the  words  of  the  prophecy, 
"  And  the  heavens  shall  be  turned  to  blood,"  formed  them 
selves  upon  my  lips,  the  crimson  suddenly  vanished,  and 
a  lightning  flash  of  vivid  orange  startled  us  with  its  wide, 
all-pervading  glare,  which  extended  even  to  the  southern 
horizon,  as  if  the  whole  volume  of  the  atmosphere  had 
suddenly  taken  fire.  I  even  held  my  breath  a  moment, 
as  I  listened  for  the  tremendous  crash  of  thunder  which 
it  seemed  to  me  must  follow  this  sudden  burst  of  vivid 
light ;  but  in  heaven  or  earth  there  was  not  a  sound  to 
break  the  calm  silence  of  night,  save  the  hastily-muttered 
prayers  of  the  frightened  native  at  my  side,  as  he  crossed 
himself  and  kneeled  down  before  the  visible  majesty  of 
God.  I  could  not  imagine  any  possible  addition  which 


E.ENNAN]    WINTER  LIFE  AND  SCENERY  IN  SIBERIA.    199 

even  Almighty  power  could  make  to  the  grandeur  of  the 
aurora  as  it  now  appeared.  The  rapid  alternations  of 
crimson,  blue,  green,  and  yellow  in  the  sky  were  reflected 
so  vividly  from  the  white  surface  of  the  snow  that  the 
whole  world  seemed  now  steeped  in  blood,  and  then  quiv 
ering  in  an  atmosphere  of  pale,  ghastly  green,  through 
which  shone  the  unspeakable  glories  of  the  mighty  crim 
son  and  yellow  arches.  But  the  end  was  not  yet.  As  we 
watched  with  upturned  faces  the  swift  ebb  and  flow  of 
these  great  celestial  tides  of  colored  light,  the  last  seal 
of  the  glorious  revelation  was  suddenly  broken,  and  both 
arches  were  simultaneously  shivered  into  a  thousand  par 
allel  perpendicular  bars,  every  one  of  which  displayed  in 
regular  order,  from  top  to  bottom,  the  seven  primary 
colors  of  the  solar  spectrum.  From  horizon  to  horizon 
there  now  stretched  two  vast  curving  bridges  of  colored 
bars,  across  which  we  almost  expected  to  see,  passing  and 
repassing,  the  bright  inhabitants  of  another  world.  Amid 
cries  of  astonishment  and  exclamations  of  "  God  have 
mercy !"  from  the  startled  natives,  these  innumerable  bars 
began  to  move,  with  a  swift  dancing  motion,  back  and 
forth  along  the  whole  extent  of  both  arches,  passing  each 
other  from  side  to  side  with  such  bewildering  rapidity 
that  the  eye  was  lost  in  the  attempt  to  follow  them.  The 
whole  concave  of  heaven  seemed  transformed  into  one 
great  revolving  kaleidoscope  of  shattered  rainbows.  Never 
had  I  even  dreamed  of  such  an  aurora  as  this ;  and  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  confess  that  its  magnificence  at  that  mo 
ment  overawed  and  frightened  me.  The  whole  sky,  from 
zenith  to  horizon,  was  "  one  molten  mantling  sea  of  color 
and  fire,  crimson  and  purple,  and  scarlet  and  green,  and 
colors  for  which  there  are  no  words  in  language  and  no 
ideas  in  the  mind, — things  which  can  only  be  conceived 
while  they  are  visible."  The  "  signs  and  portents"  in  the 


200  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

heavens  were  grand  enough  to  herald  the  destruction  of  a 
world :  flashes  of  rich,  quivering  color,  covering  half  the 
sky  for  an  instant  and  then  vanishing  like  summer  light 
ning  ;  brilliant  green  streamers  shooting  swiftly  but  si 
lently  up  across  the  zenith  ;  thousands  of  variegated  bars 
sweeping  past  each  other  in  two  magnificent  arches,  and 
great  luminous  waves  rolling  in  from  the  interplanetary 
spaces  and  breaking  in  long  lines  of  radiant  glory  upon 
the  shallow  atmosphere  of  a  darkened  world. 

With  the  separation  of  the  two  arches  into  component 
bars  it  reached  its  utmost  magnificence,  and  from  that 
time  its  supernatural  beauty  slowly  but  steadily  faded. 
The  first  arch  broke  up,  and  soon  after  it  the  second ;  the 
flashes  of  color  appeared  less  and  less  frequently;  the 
luminous  bands  ceased  to  revolve  across  the  zenith ;  and 
in  an  hour  nothing  remained  in  the  dark  starry  heavens 
to  remind  us  of  the  aurora,  except  a  few  faint  Magellan 
clouds  of  luminous  vapor. 

I  am  painfully  conscious  of  my  inability  to  describe  as 
they  should  be  described  the  splendid  phenomena  of  a 
great  polar  aurora;  but  such  magnificent  effects  cannot 
be  expressed  in  a  mathematical  formula,  nor  can  an  inex 
perienced  artist  reproduce  with  a  piece  of  charcoal  the 
brilliant  coloring  of  a  Turner  landscape.  I  have  given 
only  faint  hints,  which  the  imagination  of  the  reader  must 
fill  up.  But  be  assured  that  no  description,  however  faith 
ful,  no  flight  of  the  imagination,  however  exalted,  can 
begin  to  do- justice  to  a  spectacle  of  such  unearthly  gran 
deur.  Until  man  drops  his  vesture  of  flesh  and  stands 
in  the  presence  of  Deity,  he  will  see  no  more  striking 
manifestation  of  the  "  glory  of  the  Lord,  which  is  terri 
ble,"  than  that  presented  by  a  brilliant  exhibition  of  the 
Arctic  aurora. 


WILSON]  THE  BLUEBIRD.  201 

THE  BLUEBIRD. 

ALEXANDER  WILSON. 

[Alexander  Wilson,  the  father  of  American  ornithology,  was  born 
at  Paisley,  Scotland,  in  1766.  He  acquired  some  reputation  in  his 
native  land  as  a  poet,  before  coming  to  America  in  1794.  His  first 
employment  in  this  country  was  as  a  weaver,  and  afterwards  as  a 
school-teacher,  near  Philadelphia.  The  advice  and  instruction  of 
William  Bartram  the  botanist  induced  him  to  study  the  birds  of 
America.  In  this  pursuit  he  made  a  pedestrian  tour  through  Western 
New  York,  then  a  primeval  wilderness.  This  tour  was  described  by 
him  in  a  lively  poem  entitled  "  The  Foresters."  The  result  of  his 
labors  was  a  valuable  work  on  ornithology,  issued  by  him  in  seven 
volumes,  which  was  completed  in  1813.  It  was  admirably  done,  the 
birds  being  pictured  with  great  care  and  exactness,  and  was  the  true 
pioneer  of  Audubon's  later  and  magnificent  work.  Worn  out  with 
his  excessive  labor,  Wilson  died  in  1813.  Two  additional  volumes  of 
his  work  were  edited  after  his  death.  His  descriptive  passages  are 
written  in  a  lively  and  imaginative  style,  and  possess  value  from  the 
close  observation  of  nature  which  they  manifest.  In  his  mind  the 
instincts  of  the  poet  and  the  man  of  science  were  united.] 

THE  pleasing  manners  and  sociable  disposition  of  this 
little  bird  entitle  him  to  particular  notice.  As  one  of  the 
first  messengers  of  spring,  bringing  the  charming  tidings 
to  our  very  doors,  he  bears  his  own  recommendation 
always  along  with  him,  and  meets  with  a  hearty  wel 
come  from  everybody. 

Though  generally  accounted  a  bird  of  passage,  yet  so 
early  as  the  middle  of  February,  if  the  weather  be  open, 
he  usually  makes  his  appearance  about  his  old  haunts, 
the  barn,  orchard,  and  fence-posts.  Storms  and  deep 
snows  sometimes  succeeding,  he  disappears  for  a  time, 
but  about  the  middle  of  March  is  again  seen,  accompanied 
by  his  mate,  visiting  the  box  in  the  garden,  or  the  hole  in 


202  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [ WILSON 

the  old  apple-tree,  the  cradle  of  some  generations  of  his 
ancestors.  "When  he  first  begins  his  amours,"  says  a 
curious  and  correct  observer,  "  it  is  pleasing  to  behold  his 
courtship,  his  solicitude  to  please  and  to  secure  the  favor 
of  his  beloved  female.  He  uses  the  tenderest  expressions, 
Bits  close  by  her,  caresses  and  sings  to  her  his  most  en 
dearing  warblings.  "When  seated  together,  if  he  espies 
an  insect  delicious  to  her  taste,  he  takes  it  up,  flies  with 
it  to  her,  spreads  his  wing  over  her,  and  puts  it  in  her 
mouth."  If  a  rival  makes  his  appearance, — for  they  are 
ardent  in  their  loves, — he  quits  her  in  a  moment,  attacks 
and  pursues  the  intruder  as  he  shifts  from  place  to  place, 
in  tones  that  bespeak  the  jealousy  of  his  affection,  con 
ducts  him,  with  many  reproofs,  beyond  the  extremities  of 
his  territory,  and  returns  to  warble  out  his  transports  of 
triumph  beside  his  beloved  mate.  The  preliminaries  being 
thus  settled,  and  the  spot  fixed  on,  they  begin  to  clean 
out  the  old  nest  and  the  rubbish  of  the  former  year,  and 
to  prepare  for  the  reception  of  their  future  offspring. 
Soon  after  this,  another  sociable  little  pilgrim  (Motacilla 
domestica,  house  wren)  also  arrives  from  the  south,  and, 
finding  such  a  snug  berth  preoccupied,  shows  his  spite  by 
watching  a  convenient  opportunity  and,  in  the  absence  of 
the  owner,  popping  in  and  pulling  out  sticks,  but  takes 
special  care  to  make  off  as  fast  as  possible. 

The  female  lays  five,  and  sometimes  six,  eggs,  of  a  pale 
blue  color,  and  raises  two,  and  sometimes  three,  broods  in 
a  season ;  the  male  taking  the  youngest  under  his  particu 
lar  care  while  the  female  is  again  sitting.  Their  princi 
pal  food  are  insects,  particularly  large  beetles,  and  others 
of  the  coleopterous  kinds  that  lurk  among  old,  dead,  and 
decaying  trees.  Spiders  are  also  a  favorite  repast  with 
them.  In  fall  they  occasionally  regale  themselves  on  the 
berries  of  the  sour  gum,  and,  as  winter  approaches,  on 


WILSON]  THE  BLUEBIRD.  203 

those  of  the  red  cedar,  and  on  the  fruit  of  a  rough,  hairy 
vine  that  runs  up  and  cleaves  fast  to  the  trunks  of  trees. 
Eipe  persimmons  is  another  of  their  favorite  dishes ;  and 
many  other  fruits  and  seeds  which  I  have  found  in  their 
stomachs  at  that  season,  which,  being  no  botanist,  I  am 
unable  to  particularize.  They  are  frequently  pestered 
with  a  species  of  tape-worm,  some  of  which  I  have  taken 
from  their  intestines  of  an  extraordinary  size,  and,  in 
some  cases,  in  great  numbers.  Most  other  bii'ds  are  also 
plagued  with  these  vermin ;  but  the  bluebird  seems  more 
subject  to  them  than  any  I  know,  except  the  woodcock. 
An  account  of  the  different  species  of  vermin,  many  of 
which,  I  doubt  not,  are  nondescripts,  that  infest  the  plu 
mage  and  intestines  of  our  birds,  would  of  itself  form  an 
interesting  publication ;  but,  as  this  belongs  more  prop 
erly  to  the  entomologist,  I  shall  only,  in  the  course  of  this 
work,  take  notice  of  some  of  the  most  remarkable,  and 
occasionally  represent  them  on  the  same  plate  with  those 
birds  upon  which  they  are  usually  found. 

The  usual  spring  and  summer  song  of  the  bluebird  is  a 
soft,  agreeable,  and  oft-repeated  warble,  uttered  with  open, 
quivering  wings,  and  is  extremely  pleasing.  In  his  mo 
tions  and  general  character  he  has  great  resemblance  to 
the  robin-redbreast  of  Britain,  and  had  he  the  brown 
olive  of  that  bird,  instead  of  his  own  blue,  could  scarcely 
be  distinguished  from  him.  Like  him,  he  is  known  to 
almost  every  child,  and  shows  as  much  confidence  in  man 
by  associating  with  him  in  summer,  as  the  other  by  his 
familiarity  in  winter.  He  is  also  of  a  mild  and  peaceful 
disposition,  seldom  fighting  or  quarrelling  with  other 
birds.  His  society  is  courted  by  the  inhabitants  of  the 
country,  and  few  farmers  neglect  to  provide  for  him,  in 
some  suitable  place,  a  snug  little  summer-house,  ready 
fitted  and  rent-free.  For  this  he  more  than  sufficiently 


204  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [ 

repays  them  by  the  cheerfulness  of  his  song  and  the  mul 
titude  of  injurious  insects  which  he  daily  destroys.  To 
wards  fall — that  is,  in  the  month  of  October — his  song 
changes  to  a  single  plaintive  note,  as  he  passes  over  the 
yellow,  many-colored  woods;  and  its  melancholy  air  re 
calls  to  our  minds  the  approaching  decay  of  the  face  of 
nature.  Even  after  the  trees  are  stripped  of  their  leaves, 
he  still  lingers  over  his  native  fields,  as  if  loath  to  leave 
them.  About  the  middle  or  end  of  November  few  or 
none  of  them  are  seen ;  but  with  every  return  of  mild 
and  open  weather  we  hear  his  plaintive  note  amidst  the 
fields,  or  in  the  air,  seeming  to  deplore  the  devastations 
of  winter.  Indeed,  he  appears  scarcely  ever  totally  to 
forsake  us,  but  to  follow  fair  weather  through  all  its  jour- 
neyings  till  the  return  of  spring.  .  .  . 

The  bluebird  is  six  inches  and  three-quarters  in  length, 
the  wings  remarkably  full  and  broad ;  the  whole  upper 
parts  are  of  a  rich  sky-blue,  with  purple  reflections ;  the 
bill  and  legs  are  black ;  inside  of  the  mouth,  and  soles  of 
the  feet,  yellow,  resembling  the  color  of  a  ripe  persimmon  ; 
the  shafts  of  all  the  wing-  and  tail-feathers  are  black ; 
throat,  neck,  breast,  and  sides,  partially  under  the  wings, 
chestnut ;  wings,  dusky  black  at  the  tips ;  belly  and  vent, 
white;  sometimes  the  secondaries  are  exteriorly  light 
brown,  but  the  bird  has  in  that  case  not  arrived  at  his  ful) 
color.  The  female  is  easily  distinguished  by  the  dullei 
cast  of  the  back,  the  plumage  of  which  is  skirted  with 
light  brown,  and  by  the  red  on  the  breast  being  much 
fainter,  and  not  descending  nearly  so  low  as  in  the  male ; 
the  secondaries  are  also  more  dusky.  This  species  is 
found  over  the  whole  United  States ;  in  the  Bahama 
Islands,  where  many  of  them  winter;  as  also  in  Mexico, 
Brazil,  and  Guiana. 

Mr.  Edwards  mentions  that  the  specimen  of  this  bird 


WILSON]  THE  BLUEBIRD.  205 

•which  he  was  favored  with  was  sent  from  the  Bermudas ; 
and,  as  these  islands  abound  with  the  cedar,  it  is  highly 
probable  that  many  of  those  birds  pass  from  our  con 
tinent  thence,  at  the  commencement  of  winter,  to  enjoy 
the  mildness  of  that  climate  as  well  as  their  favorite  food. 
As  the  bluebird  is  so  regularly  seen  in  winter  after  the 
continuance  of  a  few  days  of  mild  and  open  weather,  it 
has  given  rise  to  various  conjectures  as  to  the  place  of  his 
retreat ;  some  supposing  it  to  be  in  close,  sheltered  thick 
ets  lying  to  the  sun  ;  others  the  neighborhood  of  the  sea, 
where  the  air  is  supposed  to  be  more  temperate,  and  where 
the  matters  thrown  up  by  the  waves  furnish  him  with  a 
constant  and  plentiful  supply  of  food.  Others  trace  him 
to  the  dark  recesses  of  hollow  trees  and  subterraneous 
caverns,  where  they  suppose  he  dozes  away  the  winter, 
making,  like  Eobinson  Crusoe,  occasional  reconnoitring 
excursions  from  his  castle  whenever  the  weather  happens 
to  be  favorable.  But  amidst  the  snows  and  severities  of 
winter  I  have  sought  for  him  in  vain  in  the  most  favorable 
sheltered  situations  of  the  Middle  States,  and  not  only  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  sea,  but  on  both  sides  of  the 
mountains.  I  have  never,  indeed,  explored  the  depths  of 
caverns  in  search  of  him,  because  I  would  as  soon  expect 
to  meet  with  tulips  and  butterflies  there,  as  bluebirds; 
but  among  hundreds  of  woodmen,  who  have  cut  down 
trees  of  all  sorts  and  at  all  seasons,  I  have  never  heard 
one  instance  of  these  birds  being  found  so  immured  in 
winter;  while  in  the  whole  of  the  Middle  and  Eastern 
States  the  same  general  observation  seems  to  prevail,  that 
the  bluebird  always  makes  his  appearance  in  winter  after 
a  few  days  of  mild  and  open  weather.  On  the  other  hand, 
I  have  myself  found  them  numerous  in  the  woods  of  North 
and  South  Carolina  in  the  depth  of  winter,  and  I  have 
also  been  assured  by  different  gentlemen  of  respectability, 
ii.  18 


206  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [WILSON 

who  have  resided  in  the  islands  of  Jamaica,  Cuba,  and  the 
Bahamas  and  Bermudas,  that  this  very  bird  is  common 
there  in  winter.  We  also  find,  from  the  works  of  Her 
nandez,  Piso,  and  others,  that  it  is  well  known  in  Mexico, 
Guiana,  and  Brazil ;  and,  if  so,  the  place  of  its  winter  re 
treat  is  easily  ascertained,  without  having  recourse  to  all 
'  the  trumpery  of  holes  and  caverns,  torpidity,  hibernation, 
and  such  ridiculous  improbabilities. 

Nothing  is  more  common  in  Pennsylvania  than  to  see 
large  flocks  of  these  birds,  in  spring  and  fall,  passing  at 
considerable  heights  in  the  air, — from  the  south  in  the' 
former  and  from  the  north  in  the  latter  season.  I  have 
seen,  in  the  month  of  October,  about  an  hour  after  sunrise, 
ten  or  fifteen  of  them  descend  from  a  great  height  and 
settle  on  the  top  of  a  tall  detached  tree,  appearing,  from 
their  silence  and  sedateness,  to  be  strangers,  and  fatigued. 
After  a  pause  of  a  few  minutes,  they  began  to  dress  and 
arrange  their  plumage,  and  continued  so  employed  for  ten 
or  fifteen  minutes  more;  then,  on  a  few  warning  notes 
being  given,  perhaps  by  the  leader  of  the  party,  the  whole 
remounted  to  a  vast  height,  steering  in  a  direct  line  for 
the  southwest.  In  passing  along  the  chain  of  the  Bahamas 
towards  the  West  Indies,  no  great  difficulty  can  occur, 
from  the  frequency  of  these  islands ;  nor  even  to  the  Ber 
mudas,  which  are  said  to  be  six  hundred  miles  from  the 
nearest  part  of  the  continent.  This  may  seem  an  extraor 
dinary  flight  for  so  small  a  bird ;  but  it  is  nevertheless  a 
fact  that  it  is  performed.  If  we  suppose  the  bluebird  in 
this  case  to  fly  only  at  the  rate  of  a  mile  per  minute, 
which  is  less  than  I  have  actually  ascertained  him  to  do 
overland,  ten  or  eleven  hours  would  be  sufficient  to  ac 
complish  the  journey,  besides  the  chances  he  would  have 
Df  resting-places  by  the  way,  from  the  number  of  vessels 
Shat  generally  navigate  those  seas.  In  like  manner,  two 


WOOLSON]  A  SOJOURN  IN  ARGADY.  207 

days  at  most,  allowing  for  numerous  stages  for  rest,  would 
conduct  him  from  the  remotest  regions  of  Mexico  to  any 
part  of  the  Atlantic  States.  When  the  natural  history  of 
that  part  of  the  continent  and  its  adjacent  isles  is  better 
known,  and  the  period  at  which  its  birds  of  passage  arrive 
and  depart  are  truly  ascertained,  I  have  no  doubt  but  these 
suppositions  will  be  fully  corroborated. 


A  SOJOURN  IN  ARCADY. 

ABBA  G.  WOOLSON. 

[Abba  Goold  Woolson  was  born  at  Windham,  Maine,  in  1838.  She 
has  lectured  on  English  literature,  and  is  the  author  of  "  Woman  in 
American  Society,"  "  Dress  Keform,"  "  Browsings  among  Books,"  etc. 
We  offer  a  characteristic  selection  from  the  first-named  of  these  works. 
Its  vein  of  humor  is  an  agreeable  addition  to  the  good  sense  with 
which  the  whole  book  is  replete.] 

WHEN  the  ornamental  young  lady  leaves  her  city  nomo 
to  indulge  for  a  while  in  the  sweets  of  a  country  life,  she 
is  in  a  fair  way  to  study  one  phase  of  American  society 
hitherto  unknown  to  her,  and  to  learn  from  it  a  few  pro 
saic  truths.  Poets  and  romancers  have  made  her  familiar 
with  the  scenery  of  their  pastorals ;  and  though  she  has 
no  hope  of  finding  the  hill-sides  of  her  new  resort  sprinkled 
with  coy  little  shepherdesses,  who  sit  with  crooks  and 
garlanded  hats  amid  flocks  of  sleepy  sheep,  while  love 
sick  swains  blow  oaten  pipes  at  their  feet,  yet  she  does 
fancy  that  something  not  altogether  alien  to  the  pretty, 
idyllic  existence  that  had  got  into  books  will  be  possible 
to  her  there. 

After  a  few  weeks  she  will  realize  that  nowhere  are  the 


208  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [WOOLSON 

hard,  bare  facts  of  material  life  so  squarely  faced  as  in  our 
own  country  towns,  where  not  only  the  beauty  of  poetry 
and  art,  but  even  the  charms  of  Nature  herself,  find  little 
or  no  recognition.  She  will  learn,  too,  that  between  her 
own  occupation  and  amusements  and  those  of  her  country 
sisters  there  is  scarcely  more  correspondence  than  if  she 
had  been  born  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  globe. 

These  thoughts  could  not  but  arise  when  my  friend 
Madge  came  in  this  morning  to  bid  us  good-by.  She  is 
off  to-day  for  her  summer  campaign ;  this  time  neither  to 
the  sea-side,  the  Springs,  nor  the  White  Hills,  but  to  an 
old-fashioned  farm-house  somewhere  in  Vermont.  The 
town  is  charming  and  retired,  she  tells  me ;  the  house  a 
roomy  old  mansion,  neat  and  quiet,  and  embowered  under 
great  elms;  and  the  family  an  independent  farmer  and 
wife,  who  never  had  a  boarder  before,  and  who  consent  to 
take  her  only  as  a  favor.  It  promises  a  novel  existence  to 
this  city  maiden,  who  has  spent  her  summer  days  among 
the  crowds  at  fashionable  watering-places ;  and  she  is  en 
chanted  at  the  prospect  of  so  complete  a  change. 

In  a  burst  of  friendly  confidence,  she  declared  herself 
sick  of  the  world, — this  poor  little  nun,  just  turned  of 
eighteen,  and  as  fine  a  butterfly  as  one  would  wish  to  see. 
Great  hotels  have  become  to  her  stupid  abodes,  where 
there  is  nothing  to  be  done,  from  morning  till  night,  but 
to  dress,  and  eat,  and  drift  about  the  piazzas.  Flirting — 
to  which,  I  grieve  to  say,  she  is  not  averse — she  asserts  to 
be  impossible  in  such  places,  for  there  is  not  a  young  man 
to  be  met  there  nowadays,  at  least  nobody  worth  killing. 
And  so  it  is  that  she  decides  to  turn  her  back  upon  all 
vain  pomps  and  vanities,  and  betake  herself  to  utter  se 
clusion;  though,  in  spite  of  her  sighs,  she  intends,  no 
doubt,  to  emerge  in  time  for  next  winter's  round  of  parties 
and  balls. 


A  SOJOURN  IN  ARCADY.  209 

STou  should  have  heard  her  rhapsodize  so  gloriously 
over  the  delights  she  is  to  find  in  this  new  retreat.  Such 
feasting  on  fruits  and  berries  and  cream,  such  rambles 
through  wood  and  meadow,  such  sound,  refreshing  slum 
ber  at  night,  and  such  siestas  at  .noonday !  One  would 
think  she  was  to  live,  like  the  butterflies,  by  sipping 
nectar  from  flower-cups  and  sleeping  in  the  cool,  rocking 
tents  of  the  lilies.  Especially  was  she  rejoiced  that  she 
would  not  have  to  spend  her  days  in  dressing  and  adorn 
ing  herself, — as  if  there  were  a  place  where  Madge  would 
not  do  that !  Were  she  to  be  cast  away  on  a  desert  island, 
she  could  no  more  keep  from  braiding  her  crimps  and 
looping  up  her  overskirts  in  the  latest  style  than  a  bird 
could  keep  from  singing  in  a  wilderness.  Wherever  she 
goes  she  must  take  her  finery  and  her  fashions.  Trains 
of  vaporous  muslin  will  float  over  the  sanded  floors  of 
that  old  farm-house,  crisp,  pale  silks  rustle  in  the  rush- 
bottomed  chairs,  and  the  prim  front  chamber  be  turned 
into  a  bewildered  boudoir,  with  French  gewgaws  run 
ning  riot  over  the  tall  bureau-tops,  and  bournous  and  In 
dian  mantles  littering  the  straight  tables.  Somewhere 
among  the  hay-makers  will  wander  a  jaunty  hat  and  a 
scarlet  cloak ;  for  it  is  much  to  be  feared  lest  this  pretty 
charmer  may  seek  to  astound  the  natives  with  her  gay 
adornments,  and  even  to  get  up  desperate  flirtations  with 
the  farmers'  sons,  if  only,  like  Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Vere, 
"  to  break  a  country  heart  for  pastime,  ere  she  goes  to 
town." 

Now  that  my  friend  is  gone,  and  her  pleasant  laugh 
and  merry  stories  will  be  heard  no  more  for  so  many 
weeks,  I  fall  to  dreaming  over  all  that  she  has  said.  She 
is  a  winsome  little  body,  and  one  would  fain  believe  that 
she  is  to  walk  straight  into  the  lovely  Arcady  that  she 
has  pictured  for  herself.  It  would  have  been  cruel  to 
ii.— o  18* 


210  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [ 

throw  even  a  sprinkle  of  cold  water  over  her  rosy  expec 
tations  ;  though  countless  fears  beset  me  when  she  averred 
that  this  worthy  couple  knew  nothing  of  boarders  and 
took  her  only  out  of  kindness.  And  their  farm-house 
may  prove,  after  all,  the  abode  of  a  neat-handed  Phyllis 
and  an  obliging  Corydon,  who  shall  consult  her  city  tastes 
and  provide  all  things  her  soul  can  desire. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Madge  will  have  her  feasting,  at 
least;  she  is  so  weary  of  sherbets  and  ices  and  oyster- 
pies,  and  had  such  glowing  visions  of  her  country  fare. 
She  was  to  breakfast,  she  said,  on  fresh  eggs  and  broiled 
chicken ;  revel,  at  dinner,  on  half  a  dozen  kinds  of  vege 
tables  just  pulled  from  the  vines ;  and  sup  on  great  bowls 
of  cream  and  dishes  of  berries,  cooler  and  sweeter  than 
any  she  ever  ate  before.  Stamped  cakes  of  butter,  hard 
as  stone  and  yellow  as  gold,  loomed  vaguely  in  her  talk  ; 
there  was  to  be  bread,  light  and  snowy  and  piled  in  wafer 
slices ;  sugary  cakes  filled  with  caraway-seeds ;  custards 
and  jellies,  and  curds  of  new  cheese.  All  this  she  was  to 
eat  in  some  breezy  room,  looking  out  under  vine-sprays 
upon  a  blossoming  garden. 

But,  oh,  what  if  Phyllis  gives  her  fried  steak  for  break 
fast,  as  no  doubt  Phyllis  will,  and  not  sirloin  at  that,  and 
would  no  more  think  of  broiling  a  chicken,  nor  of  broil 
ing  anything,  than  if  such  a  mode  of  cooking  was  never 
invented?  What  if  the  eggs  be  sent  to  market;  and 
omelettes  unknown ;  and  the  cream  skimmed  off  for 
churning;  and  the  bread  heavy  and  green  and  odorous 
with  saleratus?  What  if  fried  pork  be  served  for  her 
dinner ;  and  fish  never  seen ;  and  vegetables  and  berries 
be  few,  for  lack  of  fingers  to  pick  them ;  and  dried  cake 
and  underdone  pies  hold  the  places  of  honor  at  the  rural 
teas?  What  if  ice  is  a  myth ;  and  the  butter  melts  with 
fervent  heat ;  and  water  simmers  in  the  pitcher  ?  What 


WOOLSOK]  A  SOJOURN  IN  ARCADE.  211 

if  Corydon  sits  down  to  table  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  nevei 
dreaming  that  he  thus  commits  the  unpardonable  sin  ;  and 
the  blinds  be  shut  close  in  the  face  of  the  flies,  so  that  no 
glimpse  of  leaf  or  garden  can  be  had  ?  Such  things  have 
been ;  but  it  would  be  cruel  for  Madge  to  find  them  in  the 
paradise  of  her  dreams. 

What  visions  she  conjured  up  of  sound,  unbroken  sleep 
the  whole  night  long !  for  she  was  "  to  rise  with  the  lark 
and  with  the  lark  to  bed,"  as  she  told  us  in  her  pretty 
bravura,  and  was  sure  she  should  sleep  like  a  top.  Just 
how  a  top  sleeps,  or  what  precise  hours  the  larks  keep, 
she  would  be  puzzled  to  tell ;  but  it  is  plain  she  means  to 
atone  thoroughly  for  last  winter's  revelries.  A  cricket 
on  the  hearth  was  to  sing  her  to  sleep  ;  and  she  revealed 
a  dim  notion  that  the  sheets  were  to  smell  of  lavender, 
like  those  in  the  inn  where  Ik.  Walton  lodged  so  comfort 
ably  when  he  went  a-fishing.  Madge  thinks  that  all  the 
world  goes  to  bed  by  gaslight,  reposes  on  hair  mattresses 
under  fleecy  blankets,  and  has  an  exhaustless  supply  of 
fresh  water  pouring  into  marble  basins.  But  in  that  best 
chamber  there  is  a  bed  of  live  geese-feathers,  the  pride  of 
Phyllis's  heart ;  and  over  that  a  layer  of  cotton  coverlets, 
and  pillows  so  small  that  she  must  set  them  on  end  to 
keep  her  head  on  a  breathing-level.  In  place  of  her  bath 
room,  one  pitcher  of  water  holds  the  odor  of  a  decayed 
cistern  in  its  yellow  depths ;  and  towels  are  limited  in 
supply,  and  fine  as  cambric  handkerchiefs.  She  thought 
to  lean  on  her  window-sill  after  twilight,  gazing  at  the 
midsummer  moon  and  inhaling  the  dewy  fragrance  of  the 
fields ;  but  that  window  goes  up  with  a  jerk,  and  stops 
midway  where  no  button  exists  to  hold  it;  and  a  full 
canopy  of  cloth  enshrouds  its  panes,  and  sends  its  fringed 
edges  flapping  into  her  eyes.  Then  a  shade  of  green 
paper — most  unmanageable  of  things  that  be — rattles 


2 '2  .REST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [WOOLSON 

under  it  at  every  wind-stir,  and  submits  to  be  rolled  up 
only  after  Madge  has  resolved  never  to  succumb. 

Vexations,  indeed,  abound ;  but  it  is  not  her  part  to 
complain,  nor  to  give  orders  to  a  hostess  who  does  not 
suspect  that  there  can  be  a  change  for  the  better  in  any 
part  of  her  house.  So,  when  the  kerosene  lamp  which 
Madge  takes  to  her  room  has  gone  through  all  its  amiable 
tricks  of  smoking  fiercely  against  the  chimney,  exhaling 
pestiferous  odors,  and  finally  succumbing  altogether  to  a 
sudden  whiff  of  air,  she  will  pick  her  way  about  by  star 
light,  like  a  little  owl,  or  will  secretly  purloin  a  tallow 
candle,  and  set  it  ablaze  before  the  mirror  where  she 
braids  her  tresses.  And  this  mirror  must  be  reckoned 
among  her  troubles,  for  it  is  fixed  to  the  wall  so  that  it 
cannot  be  swung,  and  deigns  to  reveal  only  the  tops  of 
her  crimps  to  her  upturned  gaze. 

Moreover,  Madge  likes  to  sleep  in  the  morning  as  long 
as  she  pleases,  and  is  wont  to  indulge  in  delicious  naps 
after  the  rest  of  her  city  household  are  astir.  This  repre 
hensible  habit  will  find  no  countenance  in  the  new  abode. 
No  one  calls  her,  to  be  sure;  but,  at  what  seems  the  mid 
dle  of  the  night,  robins  begin  noisy  chatterings  in  the 
great  elms,  so  that  she  is  wide  awake  before  dawn.  A 
little  later,  and  all  the  chickens,  ducks,  and  geese  gather 
for  a  parade  under  her  window  and  clamor  for  their 
rations.  Stealing  up  from  the  kitchen  comes  a  clatter  of 
pots  and  pans,  dread  forewarnings  of  breakfast  at  hand ; 
and  the  adjoining  yard  resounds  with  the  whetting  of 
Corydon's  scythes.  Sound  sleeping  in  Arcady  after  day 
break  Madge  finds  to  be  an  impossible  thing. 

But  nothing  deprives  her  of  her  delightful  rambles; 
though  she  is  aware  that  strolling  about  is  not  a  favorite 
pastime  in  that  region,  and  that  scaling  stone  walls  is 
regarded  as  highly  unbecoming  in  a  young  lady.  She 


WOOLSON]  A  SOJOURN  IN  ARCADF.  21b 

discovers,  also,  that  her  raptures  over  the  beauty  of 
whiteweed,  clover,  and  potato-blossoms  are  looked  upon 
as  evidences  of  a  disordered  mind ;  but  she  ties  them  into 
bouquets  for  the  tea-table,  nevertheless,  and  is  fond  of  ar 
ranging  them  in  her  hair.  Corydon  is  too  kind  to  tell  her 
that  she  treads  down  his  tall  grass  most  wofully  when 
she  hunts  for  strawberries,  and  that  he  would  rather  have 
a  hail-storm  lodge  in  his  wheat  than  to  see  her  wandering 
through  it ;  so  she  roams  everywhere  at  will.  All  other 
exercise  is  denied  her ;  for  no  one  has  any  time  to  spend 
in  driving  about  for  sight-seeing,  and  as  for  riding  horse 
back,  there  is  not  a  lady's  saddle  to  be  found  in  the  town 

Madge  considers  the  best  parlor  a  dark  and  gloomy 
cave ;  and  she  makes  a  sitting-room  of  the  steps  of  the 
piazza,  in  the  shade  of  the  lilac-trees,  much  to  the  surprise 
of  Phyllis,  who  never  sits  down  outside  the  four  walls  of 
her  domain.  As  the  little  gypsy  leans  her  head  back 
against  the  clapboards  of  the  house,  and  looks  up  into 
the  great  horse-chestnut  before  her,  she  sees,  in  her  mind's 
eye,  a  light  hammock  swinging  within  the  shade  and  the 
coolness,  and  she  fancies  how  entrancing  it  would  be  to 
lie  there  and  read  her  novel,  with  the  sweet  breeze  stirring 
the  leaves. 

But  she  has  an  instinctive  sense  that  it  would  not  do  to 
mention  this  dream,  and  that  such  indolence  with  malice 
prepense  would  meet  with  little  favor  here.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  feels  that  she  is  an  incongruity  amid 
her  surroundings.  It  seems,  somehow,  to  be  a  crime  for 
her  to  have  journeyed  hither  only  to  be  idle  and  to  enjoy 
herself.  She  does  imagine,  however,  that  the  young  hay 
maker  who  comes  up  to  dinner  with  Corydon,  and  who 
blushes  so  violently  when  she  passes  him  the  butter,  must 
be  wonder-struck  and  delighted  by  her  delicate  beaut" 
and  strange,  rich  attire.  And  that  he  surely  ought  to  b< 


214  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [WooLSOif 

"When  he  finds  himself  served  by  such  a  wondrous  little 
goddess,  with  speech  more  silvery  and  courteous  than  he 
ever  heard  before,  he  should  feel  tempted  to  go  down  on 
his  knees  before  her,  mentally  at  least,  and  be  willing  to 
prove  himself  her  abject  slave.  Her  crimped  tresses 
should  be  threads  of  spun  gold  to  his  dazed  vision,  her 
eyes  soft,  luminous  stars,  her  Greek  brow  and  chin — for 
Madge  has  a  Greek  brow  and  chin — should  set  him  tc 
thinking  of  that  divine  stranger  whom  ^Eneas  and  his 
comrade  met  in  the  woods  beyond  Carthage. 

But,  alas  I  the  young  haymaker  never  read  the  poets, 
ancient  or  modern;  and  he  entertains  no  chivalric  non 
sense  about  woman.  He  regards  her  as  a  wise  provision 
of  nature  for  getting  dinners  ready  when  men  are  hungry 
and  for  taking  care  of  the  house  when  they  are  gone  ;  and, 
provided  she  can  put  a  meal  of  victuals  upon  the  table  in 
good  shape  when  the  clock  strikes  twelve,  do  a  smart 
churning  before  breakfast,  have  the  family  wash  out  on 
the  line  in  advance  of  her  neighbors,  knit  blue  woollen 
stockings  in  the  evening  without  a  waste  of  kerosene,  and 
spend  no  time  in  gadding  or  gossiping,  he  has  nothing  to 
say  against  her,  anyhow.  But  our  Madge  does  not  know 
how  to  do  anything  like  this ;  she  is,  at  best,  but  one  of 
the  idle  lilies  that  neither  toil  nor  spin.  And  such  beings, 
though  they  may  embarrass  him  with  their  finery  and 
manners,  appear  to  him  useless  drones.  It  is  to  be  feared 
that  he  even  calls  her  a  lazy  lounger,  good  for  nothing 
but  to  spend  money  and  to  make  folks  wait  upon  her. 
So,  when  she  crosses  the  field  in  her  white  morning-dress, 
with  its  fluted  ruffles  and  bright,  flying  sash-ends,  it  is 
well  that  she  does  not  hear  what  the  young  haymaker  is 
saying,  as  he  stands  there  wiping  his  scythe  with  grass, 
for  it  is  not  at  all  gallant  or  complimentary. 

Madge  is  on  her  way  to  the  wood  when  she  passes  the 


WOOLSON]  A  SOJOURN  IN  ARCADY.  215 

field ;  and  she  means  to  find  there  a  pleasant  spot  for 
reading  the  novel  she  has  under  her  arm.  I  see  her 
making  off  toward  the  hill  in  the  hot  sun,  and  even  hear 
the  pale,  silvery  lichens  crunch  beneath  her  fc-otsteps. 
Startled  sheep  hound  away  before  the  apparition  of  this 
gorgeous  little  fairy,  as  she  heaves  into  sight  over  the 
pasture-hill ;  and  long  branches  bend  and  rustle  behind 
her,  as  she  disappears  within  the  wood,  into  the  realm  of 
ferns  and  cool  mosses.  There  are  snakes  sometimes  in 
those  woods ;  their  glassy  eyes  watch  her  now  from  under 
damp  leaves,  and  her  skirt-hem  almost  brushes  against 
their  forked  tongues  as  she  moves  along.  Overhead, 
bead-like  eyes  look  down  upon  her,  in  hushed  observance, 
from  silent  boughs.  She  seats  herself  within  the  spread 
ing  roots  of  an  old  tree,  and  thinks  she  has  at  last  realized 
one  of  her  dreams.  Leaf-shadows  shimmer  over  the  pages 
that  she  spreads  before  her ;  and  the  trickle  of  the  brook 
near  by  sounds  infinitely  sweet.  Through  half-shut  eyes 
she  takes  in  the  full  beauty  of  the  scene,  and  then  turns  to 
her  book,  and  is  lost  to  all  but  the  adventures  of  Angelina 
and  her  noble  knight.  The  inhabitants  of  the  wood  dare 
to  breathe  and  to  move  about  as  before.  Birds  twitter 
faintly  from  the  boughs ;  a  couple  of  daddy-long-legs  start 
out  on  a  race  around  the  broad  brim  of  her  Leghorn  hat ; 
and  sundry  strange  bugs  go  prospecting  over  the  folds  of 
her  flowing  skirt.  Soon  a  grasshopper  climbs  to  her 
shoulder,  to  wink  his  long  horns  under  her  very  eyes; 
and  a  score  of  mosquitoes  begin  their  mazy  dance  before 
her  face.  A  little  jewelled  hand  waves  them  away,  and 
finally  plucks  a  fern-leaf  to  beat  about  in  self-defence. 

Just  then  Madge  starts  to  hear  a  great  rustling  and 
trampling  behind  her,  and  the  near  breathing  of  some 
dreadful  creature  whom  she  does  not  stop  to  see.  Had 
she  turned,  she  would  have  beheld  only  a  pair  of  soft. 


216  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [WooLSO* 

liquid  eyes  peering  through  the  bushes, — such  eyes  as  Juno 
herself  was  said  to  have, — and  a  pair  of  budding  horns 
amid  the  leaves ;  for  a  young  heifer  has  come  upon  tho 
scene  of  action,  and  is  wondering  who  this  visitor  may  be. 
But  Madge  does  chance  to  discern  the  snake  in  his  covert ; 
and  fearful  is  the  smothered  cry  and  sudden  the  plunges 
with  which  she  departs  headlong  from  her  paradise.  She 
snatches  the  Leghorn  hat  by  its  ribbon,  thereby  finishing 
the  race  of  the  daddy-long-legs  at  the  second  heat,  and 
bringing  the  explorations  of  insect  scouting-parties  to  an 
untimely  end.  The  birds,  the  heifer,  the  bugs,  the  mos 
quitoes,  the  snakes,  all  pause  to  stare  once  more  as  she 
departs ;  and  once  more  the  scarlet-cloaked  fairy  is  seen 
upon  the  top  of  the  pasture-hill.  Rough  scrambling  it 
has  proved  for  the  French  slippers  ;  their  rosettes  are 
filled  with  sticks  and  grasses ;  and  the  train  of  vaporous 
muslin  has  caught  on  a  tree-stump,  and  its  hem  is  rent  in 
twain.  Madge  will  never  again  venture  within  that  wood  ; 
it  is  to  her,  ever  after,  the  fearsome  home  of  snakes  and 
goblins ;  an  enchanted  forest,  haunted  by  shapes  upon 
which  she  dares  not  look. 

Will  Madge  tell  us  of  these  her  troubles  in  Arcady  when 
she  returns  in  the  fall,  and  we  are  so  glad  to  look  once 
more  into  her  face  and  to  hear  the  cheery  carol  of  her 
greeting  ?  Whatever  her  sorrows  may  be, — and  they  shall 
be  heard  with  decorous  patience, — it  will  delight  us  to 
behold  that  in  spite  of  them  all  she  has  grown  to  be  a  full- 
faced,  nut-brown  maid,  with  a  fresh  sparkle  in  her  eyes 
and  a  stronger  love  of  home  in  her  heart. 


LOWELL]  SUNSHINE  AND  HOPE.  217 


SUNSHINE  AND  HOPE. 

The  brightness  and  the  shadow  of  life,  the  hopes  that  beacon  us 
onward  with  their  rainbowed  light,  and  the  griefs  that  cloud  the  path 
way  of  our  years,  have  alike  given  inspiration  to  the  poet,  whose  song 
now  sparkles  with  gayety,  now  touches  our  hearts  with  its  affecting 
pathos.  It  is  our  present  purpose  to  group  some  of  the  light-hearted 
and  hopeful  strains,  which  we  may  follow,  farther  on,  with  a  sim 
ilar  cluster  of  songs  of  the  shadow-land.  The  opening  stanzas  of 
Lowell's  "  Ode  to  Happiness"  will  serve  as  a  fitting  introduction  to 
our  theme. 

SPIRIT,  that  rarely  comest  now, 

And  only  to  contrast  my  gloom, 

Like  rainbow-feathered  birds  that  bloom 
A  moment  on  some  autumn  bough 
That,  with  the  spurn  of  their  farewell, 
Sheds  its  last  leaves, — thou  once  didst  dwell 

"With  me  year-long,  and  make  intense 
To  boyhood's  wisely  vacant  days 
Their  fleet  but  all-sufficing  grace 

Of  trustful  inexperience 

While  soul  could  still  transfigure  sense, 
And  thrill,  as  with  love's  first  caress 
At  life's  mere  unexpectedness. 
Pays  when  my  blood  would  leap  and  run; 

As  full  of  sunshine  as  a  breeze, 

Or  spray  tossed  up  by  summer  seas 
That  doubts  if  it  be  sea  or  sun ; 
Days  that  flew  swiftly,  like  the  band 

That  played  in  Grecian  games  at  strife 
And  passed  from  eager  hand  to  hand 

The  onward-dancing  torch  of  life. 

II.— K  19 


218  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [LOWELL 

Wing-footed !  thou  abid'st  with  him 
Who  asks  it  not ;  but  he  who  hath 
Watched  o'er  the  waves  thy  waning  path 
Shall  nevermore  behold  returning 
Thy  high-heaped  canvas  shoreward  yearning  I 
Thou  first  reveal'st  to  us  thy  face 
Turned  o'er  the  shoulder's  parting  grace, 

A  moment  glimpsed,  then  seen  no  more, — 
Thou  whose  swift  footsteps  we  can  trace 
Away  from  every  mortal  door. 

Nymph  of  the  unreturning  feet, 

How  may  I  win  thee  back  ?     But  no, 

I  do  thee  wrong  to  call  thee  so ; 
'Tis  I  am  changed,  not  thou  art  fleet : 
The  man  thy  presence  feels  again, 
Not  in  the  blood,  but  in  the  brain, 
Spirit,  that  lov'st  the  upper  air, 
Serene  and  passionless  and  rare, 
Such  as  on  mountain-heights  we  find 
And  wide-viewed  uplands  of  the  mind, 
Or  such  as  scorns  to  coil  and  sing 
Hound  any  but  the  eagle's  wing 

Of  souls  that  with  long  upward  beat 

Have  won  an  undisturbed  retreat, 
Where,  poised  like  winged  victories, 
They  mirror  in  relentless  eyes 

The  life  broad-basking  'neath  their  feet, — 
Man  ever  with  his  Now  at  strife, 

Pained  with  first  gasps  of  earthly  air, 

Then  praying  Death  the  last  to  spare, 
Still  fearful  of  the  ampler  life.  . 

Memory  is  an  essential  element  of  the  happiness  of  mature  lite,  as 
hope  is  of  our  youthful  joys,  and  we  look  back  to  boyhood  with  eyes 


STEDMAN]  SUNSHINE  AND  HOPE.  219 

that  lose  signt  of  its  griefs  and  regret  its  vanished  pleasures.  This 
feeling  has  been  charmingly  expressed  by  "Washington  Allston,  the 
artist-poet. 

Ah !  then  how  sweetly  closed  those  crowded  days, 
The  minutes  parting  one  by  one  like  rays 

That  fade  upon  a  summer's  eve  ! 
But  oh !  what  charm,  or  magic  numbers, 
Can  give  me  back  the  gentle  slumbers 

Those  weary,  happy  days  did  leave, 
When  by  my  bed  I  saw  my  mother  kneel, 

And  with  her  blessing  took  her  nightly  kiss? 

Whatever  Time  destroys,  he  cannot  this : 
E'en  now  that  nameless  kiss  I  feel. 


The  sunshine  of  the  outer  world  beautifully  illustrates  the  sunshine 
of  the  heart  in  the  "  Betrothed  Anew"  of  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

The  sunlight  fills  the  trembling  air, 
And  balmy  days  their  guerdons  bring ; 

The  Earth  again  is  young  and  fair, 
And  amorous  with  musky  spring. 

The  golden  nurslings  of  the  May 

In  splendor  strew  the  spangled  green, 

And  hues  of  tender  beauty  play, 
Entangled  where  the  willows  lean. 

Mark  how  the  rippled  currents  flow ; 

What  lustres  on  the  meadows  lie ! 
And,  hark !  the  songsters  come  and  go, 

And  trill  between  the  earth  and  sky. 

Who  told  us  that  the  years  had  fled, 
Or  borne  afar  our  blissful  youth  ? 


220  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Such  joys  are  all  about  us  spread, 
We  know  the  whisper  was  not  truth. 

The  birds  that  break  from  grass  and  grove 
Sing  every  carol  that  they  sung 

When  first  our  veins  were  rich  with  love 
And  May  her  mantle  round  us  flung. 

O  fresh-lit  dawn  I  immortal  life ! 

0  Earth's  betrothal,  sweet  and  true, 
With  whose  delights  our  souls  are  rife, 

And  aye  their  vernal  vows  renew  ! 

Then,  darling,  walk  with  me  this  morn ; 

Let  your  brown  tresses  drink  its  sheen ; 
These  violets,  within  them  worn, 

Of  floral  fays  shall  make  you  queen. 

What  though  there  comes  a  time  of  pain 
When  autumn  winds  forebode  decay  ? 

The  days  of  love  are  born  again  ; 
That  fabled  time  is  far  away ! 

And  never  seemed  the  land  so  fair 

As  now,  nor  birds  such  notes  to  sing, 
Since  first  within  your  shining  hair 

1  wove  the  blossoms  of  the  spring. 


The  flowing  gayety  of  the  following  song  must  serve  as  excuse  for 
its  praise  of  the  wine-cup,  happily  no  longer  one  of  the  essentials  of 
joyous  occasions. 

Sparkling  and  bright  in  liquid  light 
Does  the  wine  our  goblets  gleam  in, 


DALLAS]  SUNSHINE  AND  HOPE.  221 

With  hue  as  red  as  the  rosy  bed 

Which  a  bee  would  choose  to  dream  in. 
Then  fill  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

Oh,  if  Mirth  might  arrest  the  flight 

Of  Time  through  Life's  dominions, 
We  here  awhile  would  now  beguile 
The  graybeard  of  his  pinions, 

To  drink  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

But  since  Delight  can't  tempt  the  wight, 

Nor  fond  Regret  delay  him, 
Nor  Love  himself  can  hold  the  elf, 
Nor  sober  Friendship  stay  him, 

We'll  drink  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 

We  may  offer  as  antidote  to  the  subtle  poison  of  the  preceding  stram 
"  The  Toast"  of  Mary  Kyle  Dallas. 

Pop  !  went  the  gay  cork  flying, 

Sparkled  the  gay  champagne ; 
By  the  light  of  a  day  that  was  dying 

He  filled  up  their  goblets  again. 
"  Let  the  last,  best  toast  be  '  Woman, — 

Woman,  dear  woman !'  "  said  he : 
M.  19* 


222  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HALPINI 

"  Empty  your  glass,  my  darling, 

When  you  drink  to  your  sex  with  me." 

But  she  caught  his  strong  brown  fingers, 

And  held  them  tight  as  in  fear, 
And  through  the  gathering  twilight 

Her  voice  fell  on  his  ear : 
"  Nay,  ere  you  drink,  I  implore  you, 

By  all  that  you  hold  divine, 
Pledge  a  woman  in  tear-drops 

Rather  by  far  than  in  wine ! 

"  By  the  woes  of  the  drunkard's  mother, 

By  his  children  who  beg  for  bread, 
By  the  fate  of  her  whose  beloved  one 

Looks  on  the  wine  when  'tis  red, 
By  the  kisses  changed  to  curses, 

By  the  tears  more  bitter  than  brine, 
By  many  a  fond  heart  broken, — 

Pledge  no  woman  in  wine." 

From  the  joy  of  sunshine,  hope,  love,  and  wine,  we  come  to  that  of 
blissful  laziness,  under  skies  without  a  cloud,  and  with  a  heart  empty 
of  care,  other  than  that  the  sun  may  always  shine.  The  utter  idleness 
of  the  Italian  dolce  far  niente  is  thus  neatly  paraphrased  by  Charles 
G.  Halpine,  the  "  Miles  O'Reilly"  of  war  times. 

My  friend,  my  chum,  my  trusty  crony, 
We  were  designed,  it  seems  to  me, 

To  be  two  happy  lazzaroni, 

On  sunshine  fed  and  macaroni, 
Far  off  by  some  Sicilian  sea. 

From  dawn  to  eve  in  the  happy  land 
No  duty  on  us  but  to  lie 


ANONYMOUS]  SUNSHINE  AND  HOPE.  223 

Straw-hatted  on  the  shining  sand, 
With  bronzing  chest  and  arm  and  hand, 
Beneath  the  blue  Italian  sky. 

There,  with  the  mountains  idly  glassing 

Their  purple  splendors  in  the  sea, 
To  watch  the  white-winged  vessels  passing 
(Fortunes  for  busier  fools  amassing), — 
This  were  a  heaven  to  you  and  me ; 

Our  meerschaums  coloring  cloudy  brown, 
Two  young  girls  coloring  with  a  blush, 
The  blue  waves  with  a  silver  crown, 
The  mountain-shadows  dropping  down, 
And  all  the  air  in  perfect  hush  : 

Thus  should  we  lie  in  the  happy  land, 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  fortune  miss, 
Straw-hatted  on  the  shining  sand, 
With  bronzing  chest  and  arm  and  hand, — 
Two  loafers  couched  in  perfect  bliss. 

Halpine's  picture  of  the  dolce  far  niente  of  the  body  may  be  fitly 
followed  by  a  peculiarly  original  poetic  rendering  of  the  "  sweet  do- 
nothing"  of  the  soul,  by  an  unknown  writer. 

My  sou",  lies  out  like  a  basking  hound, 

A  hound  that  dreams  and  dozes ; 

Along  my  life  my  length  I  lay, 

I  fill  to-morrow  and  yesterday, 

I  am  warm  with  the  suns  that  have  long  since  set, 

I  am  warm  with  the  summers  that  are  not  yet, 

And  like  one  that  dreams  and  dozes, 

Softly  afloat  on  a  sunny  sea, 

Two  worlds  are  whispering  over  me, 


224  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.       [ANONYMOUS 

And  there  blows  a  wind  of  roses 

From  the  backward  shore  to  the  shore  before, 

From  the  shore  before  to  the  backward  shore, 

And,  like  two  clouds  that  meet  and  pour 

Each  through  each,  till  core  in  core 

A  single  self  reposes, 

The  nevermore  and  evermore 

Above  me  mingles  and  closes ; 

As  my  soul  lies  out  like  a  basking  hound, 

And  wherever  it  lies  seems  happy  ground, 

And  when,  awakened  by  some  sweet  sound, 

A  dreamy  eye  uncloses, 

I  see  a  blooming  world  around, 

And  lie  amid  primroses, — 

Years  of  sweet  primroses, 

Springs  to  be,  and  springs  for  me, 

Of  distant  dim  primroses. 

With  the  following  verses  from  another  anonymous  author,  to  whom 
the  sunshine  of  life  is  a  more  vital  and  persistent  element  than  its 
shadow,  we  close  this  poetic  symposium. 

SUNSHINE. 

Our  griefs  are  soon  forgot ; 

They  were,  and  they  are  not, 

And  the  happy-hearted  world  little  cares  for  vanished 
pains ; 

But  we  fill  the  cup  of  pleasure 

To  so  deep  and  brimming  measure 
That  the  subtle  overflowing  spirit  all  our  being  stains. 

E'en  perils  dark  and  frightful 
Yield  memories  delightful, — 

From  the  granite  cliffs  of  trouble  golden  grains  of  pleas 
ure  won : 


ANONYMOUS]  SUNSHINE  AND  HOPE.  225 

Through  life's  midnight  we  grope 
Unto  many  a  starry  hope, 

And  the  deepest,  drearest  shadow  hides  the  glad  beams 
of  the  sun. 

In  passionate  ebb  and  flow 
The  sullen  waves  of  woe 
Gushing  on  us  in  a  torrent  sweep  our  warm  hearts  bare 

of  love, 

But  on  the  deepest  tide 
The  ark  of  hope  will  ride, 

And  an  earth  green  through  the  deluge  greets  the  white 
wings  of  our  dove. 

With  tender  lips,  relief 
Smiles  down  the  pang  of  grief; 
On  a  mist  of  falling  tear-drops  is  our  bow  of  promise 

built ; 

And  the  cruel  hand  of  death 
Unto  Eden  openeth, 

Heaven  drinks  the  rare  rich  wine  of  life  from  Earth's 
rent  goblet  spilt. 

Lapt  in  a.  sunny  dream 
We  float  adown  life's  stream, 
Though  the  chilling  winter  winds  blow  across  a  dismal 

wold; 

Summer  fancies  swim  and  dart 
Through  the  sunshine  of  the  heart, 

While  the  world  without  us  shivers  in  the  bleak  December 
cold. 


226  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [KENNEDY 

A  SUCCESSFUL  RUSE. 

JOHN  P.  KENNEDY. 

[Among  the  novels  of  the  last  generation  those  of  John  Pendleton 
Kennedy  occupied  an  important  place  in  public  favor,  from  the  liveli 
ness  of  their  descriptions  and  their  historical  accuracy.  Of  these  W9 
may  name  "  Swallow  Barn,"  "  Eoh  of  the  Bowl,"  and  "  Horse  Shoe 
Robinson,"  from  the  latter  of  which  we  make  our  extract.  The 
author  was  born  in  Baltimore,  in  1795.  He  served  in  the  war  of  1812, 
and  was  afterwards  a  member  of  the  Maryland  legislature,  and  of  the 
United  States  House  of  Representatives.  He  was  made  Secretary  of 
the  Navy  in  1852,  and  died  in  August,  1870.] 

ON  the  morning  that  succeeded  the  night  in  which 
Horse  Shoe  Robinson  arrived  at  Musgrove's,  the  stout 
and  honest  sergeant  might  have  been  seen,  about  eight 
o'clock,  leaving  the  main  road  from  Ninety-Six  at  the 
point  where  that  leading  to  David  Ramsay's  separated 
from  it,  and  cautiously  urging  his  way  into  the  deep  forest 
by  the  more  private  path  into  which  he  had  entered.  The 
knowledge  that  Innis  was  encamped  along  the  Ennoree, 
within  a  short  distance  of  the  mill,  had  compelled  him  to 
make  an  extensive  circuit  to  reach  Ramsay's  dwelling, 
whither  he  was  now  bent ;  and  he  had  experienced  con 
siderable  delay  in  his  morning  journey,  by  finding  him 
self  frequently  in  the  neighborhood  of  small  foraging- 
parties  of  Tories,  whose  motions  he  was  obliged  to  watch 
for  fear  of  an  encounter.  He  had  once  already  been  com 
pelled  to  use  his  horse's  heels  in  what  he  called  "fair 
flight,"  and  once  to  ensconce  himself  a  full  half-hour  under 
cover  of  the  thicket  afforded  him  by  a  swamp.  He  now, 
therefore,  according  to  his  own  phrase,  "dived  into  the 
little  road  that  scrambled  down  through  the  woods 
towards  Ramsay's,  with  all  his  eyes  about  him,  looking 


KENNEDY]  A   SUCCESSFUL  RUSE.  227 

out  as  sharply  as  a  fox  on  a  foggy  morning ;"  and,  with 
this  circumspection,  he  was  not  long  in  arriving  within 
view  of  Ramsay's  house.  Like  a  practised  soldier,  whom 
frequent  frays  have  taught  wisdom,  he  resolved  to  recon 
noitre  before  he  advanced  upon  a  post  that  might  be  in  pos 
session  of  an  enemy.  He  therefore  dismounted,  fastened 
his  horse  in  a  fence-corner,  where  a  field  of  corn  concealed 
him  from  notice,  and  then  stealthily  crept  forward  until 
he  came  immediately  behind  one  of  the  out-houses. 

The  barking  of  a  house-dog  brought  out  a  negro  boy, 
to  whom  Robinson  instantly  addressed  the  query, — 

"  Is  your  master  at  home  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  He's  got  his  horse,  and  gone  off  more  than 
an  hour  ago." 

"  Where  is  your  mistress  ?" 

"  Shelling  beans,  sir." 

"  I  didn't  ask  you,"  said  the  sergeant,  "  what  she  i» 
doing,  but  where  she  is." 

"  In  course,  she  is  in  the  house,  sir,"  replied  the  negro, 
with  a  grin. 

"  Any  strangers  there  ?" 

"  There  was  plenty  on  'em  a  little  while  ago,  but  they've 
been  gone  a  good  bit." 

Robinson,  having  thus  satisfied  himself  as  to  the  safety 
of  his  visit,  directed  the  boy  to  take  his  horse  and  lead 
him  up  to  the  door.  He  then  entered  the  dwelling. 

"  Mistress  Ramsay,"  said  he,  walking  up  to  the  dame,  who 
was  occupied  at  a  table,  with  a  large  trencher  before  her, 
in  which  she  was  plying  that  household  thrift  which  the 
negro  described,  "  luck  to  you,  ma'am,  and  all  your  hoube ! 
I  hope  you  haven't  none  of  these  clinking  and  clattering 
bullies  about  you,  that  are  as  thick  over  this  country  as 
the  frogs  in  the  kneading-troughs,  that  they  tell  of." 

"  Good  lack,  Mr.  Horse  Shoe  Robinson !"  exclaimed  the 


«.38  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [KENNEDT 

matron,  offering  the  sergeant  her  hand.  ""What  has 
brought  you  here?  What  news?  Who  are  with  you? 
For  patience'  sake,  tell  me !" 

"  I  am  alone,"  said  Kobinson,  "  and  a  little  wettish, 
mistress,"  he  added,  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and  shook  the 
water  from  it ;  "  it  has  just  sot  up  a  rain,  and  looks  as  if 
it  was  going  to  give  us  enough  on't.  You  don't  mind 
doing  a  little  dinner- work  of  a  Sunday,  I  see :  shelling  of 
beans,  I  s'pose,  is  tantamount  to  dragging  a  sheep  out  of 
a  pond,  as  the  preachers  allow  on  the  Sabbath, — ha,  ha ! 
Where's  Davy  ?" 

"He's  gone  over  to  the  meeting-house  on  Ennoree, 
hoping  to  hear  something  of  the  army  at  Camden.  Per 
haps  you  can  tell  us  the  news  from  that  quarter?" 

"  Faith,  that's  a  mistake,  Mistress  Ramsay.  Though  I 
don't  doubt  that  they  are  hard  upon  the  scratches  by  this 
time.  But  at  this  present  speaking  I  command  the  flying 
artillery.  We  have  but  one  man  in  the  corps, — and  that's 
myself;  and  all  the  guns  we  have  got  is  this  piece  of  ord 
nance  that  hangs  in  this  old  belt  by  my  side"  (pointing 
to  his  sword),  "  and  that  I  captured  from  the  enemy  at 
Blackstock's.  I  was  hoping  I  mought  find  John  Eamsay 
at  home :  I  have  need  of  him  as  a  recruit." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Robinson,  John  has  a  heavy  life  of  it  over 
there  with  Sumter.  The  boy  is  often  without  his  nat 
ural  rest  or  a  meal's  victuals ;  and  the  general  thinks  so 
much  of  him  that  he  can't  spare  him  to  come  home.  I 
haven't  the  heart  to  complain,  as  long  as  John's  service  is 
of  any  use,  but  it  does  seem,  Mr.  Robinson,  like  needless 
tempting  of  the  mercies  of  Providence.  We  thought  that 
he  might  have  been  here  to-day ;  yet  I  am  glad  he  didn't 
come,  for  he  would  have  been  certain  to  get  into  trouble. 
Who  should  come  in  this  morning,  just  after  my  husband 
had  cleverly  got  away  on  his  horse,  but  a  young  cock-a- 


KENNEDY]  A  SUCCESSFUL  RUSE.  229 

whoop  ensign  that  belongs  to  Ninety-Six,  and  four  great 
Scotchmen  with  him,  all  in  red  coats ;  they  had  been  out 
thieving,  I  warrant,  and  were  now  going  home  again. 
And  who  but  theyl  Here  they  were,  swaggering  all 
about  my  house,  and  calling  for  this  and  calling  for  that, 
as  if  they  owned  the  fee-simple  of  everything  on  the 
plantation.  And  it  made  my  blood  rise,  Mr.  Horse  Shoe, 
to  see  them  run  out  in  the  yard  and  catch  up  my  chickens 
and  ducks  and  kill  as  many  as  they  could  string  about 
them,  and  I  not  daring  to  say  a  word :  though  I  did  give 
them  a  piece  of  my  mind,  too." 

"Who  is  at  home  with  you?"  inquired  the  sergeant, 
eagerly. 

"  Nobody  but  my  youngest  boy,  Andrew,"  answered  the 
dame.  "  And  then  the  filthy  toping  rioters "  she  con 
tinued,  exalting  her  voice. 

"  What  arms  have  you  in  the  house  ?"  asked  Robinson, 
without  heeding  the  dame's  rising  anger. 

"  We  have  a  rifle,  and  a  horseman's  pistol  that  belongs 
to  John.  They  must  call  for  drink,  too,  and  turn  my 
house,  of  a  Sunday  morning,  into  a  tavern " 

"  They  took  the  route  towards  Ninety-Six,  you  said, 
Mistress  Eamsay  ?" 

"  Yes,  they  went  straight  forward  upon  the  road.  But, 
»ok  you,  Mr.  Horse  Shoe,  you're  not  thinking  of  going 
rter  them  ?" 

"Isn't  there  an  old  field,  about  a  mile  from  this,  on 
,  uat  road  ?"  inquired  the  sergeant,  still  intent  upon  his 
<wn  thoughts. 

"There  is,"  replied  the  dame, — "with  the  old  school 

iuse  upon  it." 

"  A  lop-sided,  rickety  log  cabin  in  the  middle  of  the  field. 
.  m  I  right,  good  woman  ?" 

"  Yes." 
ii  20 


230  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [KENNED* 

"  And  nobody  lives  in  it  ?    It  has  no  door  to  it  ?" 

"  There  ha'n't  been  anybody  in  it  these  seven  years." 

"  I  know  the  place  very  well,"  said  the  sergeant,  thought- 
fully :  "  there  is  woods  just  on  this  side  of  it." 

"  That's  true,"  replied  the  dame.  "  But  what  is  it  you 
are  thinking  about,  Mr.  Eobinson  ?" 

"How  long  before  this  rain  began  was  it  that  they 
quitted  this  house  ?*' 

"  Not  above  fifteen  minutes." 

"  Mistress  Ramsay,  bring  me  the  rifle  and  pistol,  both, — 
and  the  powder-horn  and  bullets." 

"As  you  say,  Mr.  Horse  Shoe,"  answered  the  dame,  as 
she  turned  round  to  leave  the  room ;  "  but  I  am  sure  I 
can't  suspicion  what  you  mean  to  do." 

In  a  few  moments  the  woman  returned  with  the  weap 
ons,  and  gave  them  to  the  sergeant. 

"  Where  is  Andy  ?"  asked  Horse  Shoe. 

The  hostess  went  to  the  door  and  called  her  son ;  and 
almost  immediately  afterwards  a  sturdy  boy,  of  about 
twelve  or  fourteen  years  of  age,  entered  the  apartment, 
his  clothes  dripping  with  rain.  He  modestly  and  shyly 
seated  himself  on  a  chair  near  tho  door,  with  his  soaked 
hat  flapping  down  over  a  face  full  of  freckles,  and  not  less 
rife  with  the  expression  of  an  open,  dauntless  hardihood 
of  character. 

"  How  would  you  like  a  scrummage,  Andy,  with  them 
Scotchmen  that  stole  your  mother's  chickens  this  morn- 
mg?"  asked  Horse  Shoe. 

"I'm  agreed,"  replied  the  boy,  "if  you  will  tell  me  what 
to  do." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  take  the  boy  out  on  any  of  your 
desperate  projects,  Mr.  Horse  Shoe?"  said  the  mother, 
with  the  tears  starting  instantly  into  her  eyes.  "  You 
wouldn't  take  such  a  child  as  that  into  danger !" 


KENNEDY]  A  SUCCESSFUL  RUSE.  231 

"Bless  your  soul,  Mistress  Eamsay,  there  aren't  no 
danger  about  it !  Don't  take  on  so.  It's  a  thing  that  is 
either  done  at  a  blow,  or  not  done;  and  there's  an  end 
of  it.  I  want  the  lad  only  to  bring  home  the  prisoners 
for  me,  after  I  have  took  them." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Eobinson,  I  have  one  son  already  in  these 
wars, — G-od  protect  him ! — and  you  men  don't  know  how  a 
mother's  heart  yearns  for  her  children  in  these  times.  I 
cannot  give  another,"  she  added,  as  she  threw  her  arms 
over  the  shoulders  of  the  youth  and  drew  him  to  her 
bosom. 

"  Oh,  it  ain't  nothing,"  said  Andrew,  in  a  sprightly  tone. 
"  It's  only  snapping  of  a  pistol,  mother.  Pooh !  If  I'm 
not  afraid,  you  oughtn't  to  be." 

"  I  give  you  my  honor,  Mistress  Eamsay,"  said  Eobin- 
eon,  "  that  I  will  bring  or  send  your  son  safe  back  in  one 
hour,  and  that  he  shan't  be  put  in  any  sort  of  danger 
whatsomedever.  Come,  that's  a  good  woman  I" 

"  You  are  not  deceiving  me,  Mr.  Eobinson  ?"  asked  the 
matron,  wiping  away  a  tear.  "  You  wouldn't  mock  the 
sufferings  of  a  weak  woman  in  such  a  thing  as  this  ?" 

"  On  the  honesty  of  a  sodger,  ma'am,"  replied  Horse 
Shoe,  "  the  lad  shall  be  in  no  danger,  as  I  said  before, — 
whatsomedever." 

"  Then  I  will  say  no  more,"  answered  the  mother. 
"  But,  Andy,  my  child,  be  sure  to  let  Mr.  Eobinson  keep 
before  you." 

Horse  Shoe  now  loaded  the  fire-arms,  and,  having  slung 
the  pouch  across  his  body,  he  put  the  pistol  into  the  hands 
of  the  boy ;  then,  shouldering  his  rifle,  he  and  his  young 
ally  left  the  room.  Even  on  this  occasion,  serious  as  it 
might  be  deemed,  the  sergeant  did  not  depart  without 
giving  some  manifestation  of  that  light-heartedness  which 
no  difficulties  ever  seemed  to  have  the  power  to  conquer. 


232  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [KENXBDT 

He  thrust  his  head  back  into  the  room,  after  he  had 
crossed  the  threshold,  and  said,  with  an  encouraging 
laugh,  "  Andy  and  me  will  teach  them,  Mistress  Ramsay, 
Pat's  point  of  war :  we  will  surround  the  ragamuffins." 

"  Now,  Andy,  my  lad,"  said  Horse  Shoe,  after  he  had 
mounted  Captain  Peter,  "you  must  get  up  behind  me. 
Turn  the  lock  of  your  pistol  down,"  he  continued,  as  the 
boy  sprang  upon  the  horse's  rump,  "  and  cover  it  with  the 
flap  of  your  jacket,  to  keep  the  rain  off.  It  won't  do  to 
hang  fire  at  such  a  time  as  this." 

The  lad  did  as  he  was  directed,  and  Horse  Shoe,  having 
secured  his  rifle  in  the  same  way,  put  his  horse  up  to  a 
gallop  and  took  the  road  in  the  direction  that  had  been 
pursued  by  the  soldiers. 

As  soon  as  our  adventurers  had  gained  a  wood,  at  the 
distance  of  about  half  a  mile,  the  sergeant  relaxed  his 
speed  and  advanced  at  a  pace  a  little  above  a  walk. 

"  Andy,"  he  said,  "  we  have  got  rather  a  ticklish  sort  of 
a  job  before  us :  so  I  must  give  you  your  lesson,  which 
you  will  understand  better  by  knowing  something  of  my 
plan.  As  soon  as  your  mother  told  me  that  these  thiev 
ing  villains  had  left  her  house  about  fifteen  minutes  before 
the  rain  came  on,  and  that  they  had  gone  along  upon 
this  road,  I  remembered  the  old  field  up  here  and  the  little 
log  hut  in  the  middle  of  it ;  and  it  was  natural  to  suppose 
that  they  had  just  got  about  near  that  hut  when  this  rain 
came  up ;  and  then  it  was  the  most  supposable  case  in  the 
world  that  they  would  naturally  go  into  it,  as  the  dryest 
place  they  could  find.  So  now  you  see  it's  my  calculation 
that  the  whole  batch  is  there  at  this  very  point  of  time. 
We  will  go  slowly  along  until  we  get  to  the  other  end  of 
this  wood,  in  sight  of  the  old  field ;  and  then,  if  there  is 
no  one  on  the  lookout,  we  will  open  our  first  trench :  you 
know  what  that  means,  Andy  ?" 


KENNEDY]  A   SUCCESSFUL  RUSE.  233 

"  It  means,  I  s'pose,  that  we'll  go  right  smack  at  them," 
replied  Andrew. 

"  Pretty  exactly,"  said  the  sergeant.  "  But  listen  to 
me.  Just  at  the  edge  of  the  woods  you  will  have  to  get 
down  and  put  yourself  behind  a  tree.  I'll  ride  forward, 
as  if  I  had  a  whole  troop  at  my  heels ;  and  if  I  catch 
them,  as  I  expect,  they  will  have  a  little  fire  kindled,  and, 
as  likely  as  not,  they'll  be  cooking  some  of  your  mother's 
fowls." 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  said  the  boy,  eagerly. 

"No,  you  don't,"  replied  Horse  Shoe;  "but  you  will 
when  you  hear  what  I  am  going  to  say.  If  I  get  at  them 
ona wares  they'll  be  mighty  apt  to  think  they  are  sur 
rounded,  and  will  bellow  like  fine  fellows  for  quarters. 
And  thereupon,  Andy,  I'll  cry  out,  '  Stand  fast !'  as  if  I 
was  speaking  to  my  own  men ;  and  when  you  hear  that, 
you  must  come  up  full  tilt, — because  it  will  be  a  signal  to 
you  that  the  enemy  has  surrendered.  Then  it  will  be 
your  business  to  run  into  the  house  and  bring  out  the 
muskets  as  quick  as  a  rat  runs  through  a  kitchen ;  and 
when  you  have  done  that, — why,  all's  done.  But  if  you 
should  hear  any  popping  of  fire-arms, — that  is,  more  than 
one  shot,  which  I  may  chance  to  let  off, — do  you  take  that 
for  a  bad  sign,  and  get  away  as  fast  as  you  can  heel  it. 
You  comprehend  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  the  lad,  "  and  I'll  do  what  you  want, 
— and  more  too,  maybe,  Mr,  Eobinson." 

"  Captain  Eobinson,  remember,  Andy :  you  must  call  rne 
captain,  in  the  hearing  of  these  Scotsmen." 

"  I'll  not  forget  that,  neither,"  answered  Andrew. 

By  the  time  that  these  instructions  were  fully  impressed 

upon  the  boy,  our  adventurous  forlorn  hope,  as  it  may 

fitly  be  called,  had  arrived  at  the  place  which  Horse  Shoe 

had  designated  for  the  commencement  of  active  operations. 

IT  20* 


234  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [KENNEDY 

They  had  a  clear  view  of  the  old  field ;  and  it  afforded 
them  a  strong  assurance  that  the  enemy  was  exactly 
where  they  wished  him  to  be,  when  they  discovered  smoke 
arising  from  the  chimney  of  the  hovel.  Andrew  was  soon 
posted  behind  a  tree,  and  Robinson  only  tarried  a.  moment 
to  make  the  boy  repeat  the  signals  agreed  on,  in  order  to 
ascertain  that  he  had  them  correctly  in  his  memory. 
Being  satisfied  from  this  experiment  that  the  intelligence 
of  his  young  companion  might  be  depended  upon,  he 
galloped  across  the  intervening  space,  and  in  a  few  seconds 
abruptly  reined  up  his  steed  in  the  very  door-way  of  the 
hut.  The  party  within  was  gathered  around  a  fire  at  the 
further  end ;  and  in  the  corner  near  the  door  were  four 
muskets  thrown  together  against  the  wall.  To  spring 
from  his  saddle  and  thrust  himself  one  pace  inside  of  the 
door  was  a  movement  which  the  sergeant  executed  in  an 
instant,  shouting  at  the  same  time, — 

"  Halt !  File  off  right  and  left  to  both  sides  of  the  house, 
and  wait  orders.  I  demand  the  surrender  of  all  here," 
he  said,  as  he  planted  himself  between  the  party  and  their 
weapons.  "  I  will  shoot  down  the  first  man  who  budges  a 
foot." 

"  Leap  to  your  arms !"  cried  the  young  officer  who  com 
manded  the  little  party  inside  of  the  house.  "  Why  do 
you  stand?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  do  you  or  your  men  any  harm,  young 
man,"  said  Robinson,  as  he  brought  his  rifle  to  a  level, 
"  but,  by  my  father's  son,  I  will  not  leave  one  of  you  to 
be  put  upon  a  muster-roll,  if  you  raise  a  hand  at  this 
moment  I" 

Both  parties  now  stood  for  a  brief  space  eying  each 
other,  in  a  fearful  suspense,  during  which  there  was 
an  expression  of  doubt  and  irresolution  visible  on  the 
countenances  of  the  soldiers  as  they  surveyed  the  broad 


XJSH»*DY]  A  SUCCESSFUL  RUSE.  235 

propoiuoi.a  and  met  the  stern  glance  of  the  sergeant; 
whilst  the  delay,  also,  began  to  raise  an  apprehension  in 
the  mind  of  Robinson  that  his  stratagem  would  be  dis 
covered. 

"Shall  I  let  loose  upon  them,  captain?"  said  Andrew 
Ramsay,  now  appearing,  most  unexpectedly  to  Robinson, 
at  the  door  of  the  hut.  " Come  on,  boys!"  he  shouted,  as 
he  turned  his  face  towards  the  field. 

"  Keep  them  outside  of  the  door.  Stand  fast !"  cried 
the  doughty  sergeant,  with  admirable  promptitude,  in  the 
new  and  sudden  posture  of  his  affairs  caused  by  this  op 
portune  appearance  of  the  boy.  "Sir,  you  see  that  it's 
not  worth  while  fighting  five  to  one;  and  I  should  be 
sorry  to  be  the  death  of  any  of  your  brave  fellows :  so 
take  my  advice,  and  surrender  to  the  Continental  Congress 
and  this  scrap  of  its  army  which  I  command." 

During  this  appeal  the  sergeant  was  ably  seconded  by 
the  lad  outside,  who  was  calling  out  first  on  one  name  and 
then  on  another,  as  if  in  the  presence  of  a  troop.  The 
device  succeeded,  and  the  officer  within,  believing  the 
forbearance  of  Robinson  to  be  real,  at  length  said, — 

"Lower  your  rifle,  sir.  In  the  presence  of  a  superior 
force,  taken  by  surprise  and  without  arms,  it  is  my  duty 
to  save  bloodshed.  "With  the  promise  of  fair  usage  and 
the  rights  of  prisoners  of  war,  I  surrender  this  little  for- 
aging-party  under  my  command." 

"  I'll  make  the  terms  agreeable,"  replied  the  sergeant. 
"  Never  doubt  me,  sir.  Right-hand  file,  advance,  and  re 
ceive  the  arms  of  the  prisoners  !" 

"  I'm  here,  captain,"  said  Andrew,  in  a  conceited  tone, 
as  if  it  were  a  mere  occasion  of  merriment ;  and  the  lad 
quickly  entered  the  house  and  secured  the  weapons,  re 
treating  with  them  some  paces  from  the  door. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Horse  Shoe  to  the  ensign,  "  your  sword, 


236  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [KEKNEDT 

and  whatever  else  you  mought  have  about  you  of  the 
ammunitions  of  war!" 

The  officer  delivered  up  his  sword  and  a  pair  of  pocket- 
pistols. 

As  Horse  Shoe  received  these  tokens  of  victory,  he 
asked,  with  a  lambent  smile,  and  what  he  intended  to  be 
an  elegant  and  condescending  composure,  "Your  name? 
— if  I  mought  take  the  freedom." 

"  Ensign  St.  Jermyn,  of  his  majesty's  seventy-first  regi 
ment  of  light  infantry." 

"Ensign,  your  sarvent,"  added  Horse  Shoe,  still  pre 
serving  this  unusual  exhibition  of  politeness.  "  You  have 
defended  your  post  like  an  old  sodger,  although  you  ha'n't 
much  beard  on  your  chin ;  but,  seeing  you  have  given  up, 
you  shall  be  treated  like  a  man  who  has  done  his  duty. 
You  will  walk  out  now,  and  form  yourselves  in  line  at  the 
door.  I'll  engage  my  men  shall  do  you  no  harm :  they 
are  of  a  marciful  breed." 

When  the  little  squad  of  prisoners  submitted  to  this 
command,  and  came  to  the  door,  they  were  stricken  with 
equal  astonishment  and  mortification  to  find,  in  place  of 
the  detachment  of  cavalry  which  they  expected  to  see, 
nothing  but  a  man,  a  boy,  and  a  horse.  Their  first  emo 
tions  were  expressed  in  curses,  which  were  even  succeeded 
by  laughter  from  one  or  two  of  the  number.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  disposition,  on  the  part  of  some,  to  resist  the  au 
thority  that  now  controlled  them,  and  sundry  glances 
were  exchanged  which  indicated  a  purpose  to  turn  upon 
their  captors.  The  sergeant  no  sooner  perceived  this  than 
he  halted,  raised  his  rifle  to  his  breast,  and  at  the  same 
instant  gave  Andrew  Ramsay  an  order  to  retire  a  few 
paces  and  to  fire  one  of  the  captured  pieces  at  the  first 
man  who  opened  his  lips. 

"  By  my  hand,"  he  said,  "  if  I  find  any  trouble  in  taking 


KENNEDY]  A  SUCCESSFUL  RUSE.  ^37 

you,  all  five,  safe  away  from  this  here  house,  I  will  thin 
your  numbers  with  your  own  muskets!  And  that's  as 
good  as  if  I  had  sworn  to  it." 

"  You  have  my  word,  sir,"  said  the  ensign.     "  Lead  on." 

"By  your  leave,  my  pretty  gentleman,  you  will  lead, 
and  I'll  follow,"  replied  Horse  Shoe.  "  It  may  be  a  new 
piece  of  drill  to  you,  but  the  custom  is  to  give  the  prisoners 
the  post  of  honor." 

"  As  you  please,  sir,"  answered  the  ensign.  "  Where  do 
you  take  us  to  ?" 

"  You  will  march  back  by  the  road  you  came,"  said  the 
sergeant. 

Finding  the  conqueror  determined  to  execute  summary 
martial  law  upon  the  first  who  should  mutiny,  the  prison 
ers  submitted,  and  marched  in  double  file  from  the  hut 
back  towards  Eamsay's, — Horse  Shoe,  with  Captain  Peter's 
bridle  dangling  over  his  arm,  and  his  gallant  young  auxil 
iary,  Andrew,  laden  with  double  the  burden  of  RobinsoL 
Crusoe  (having  all  the  fire-arms  packed  upon  his  shoul 
ders),  bringing  up  the  rear.  In  this  order  victors  and 
vanquished  returned  to  David  Ramsay's. 

"  Well,  I  have  brought  you  your  ducks  and  chickens 
back,  mistress,"  said  the  sergeant,  as  he  halted  the  prison 
ers  at  the  door,  "  and,  what's  more,  I  have  brought  home 
a  young  sodger  that's  worth  his  weight  in  gold." 

"Heaven  bless  my  child!  my  boy,  my  brave  boy!" 
cried  the  mother,  seizing  the  lad  in  her  arms,  and  unheed 
ing  anything  else  in  the  present  perturbation  of  her  feel 
ings.  "  I  feared  ill  would  come  of  it ;  but  Heaven  has 
preserved  him.  Did  he  behave  handsomely,  Mr.  Robinson  ? 
But  I  am  sure  he  did." 

"A  little  more  venturesome,  ma'am,  than  I  wanted  him 
to  be,"  replied  Horse  Shoe.  "  But  he  did  excellent  sarvice. 
These  are  his  prisoners,  Mistress  Ramsay  :  I  should  never 


238  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HARRIS 

have  got  them  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Andy.  In  these  drum 
ming  and  fifing  times  the  babies  suck  in  quarrel  with  their 
mothers'  milk.  Show  me  another  boy  in  America  that's 
made  more  prisoners  than  there  was  men  to  fight  them 
with,— that's  all !" 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  MILL-POND. 

JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS. 

[The  "  Uncle  Remus"  sketches  of  Joel  C.  Harris  opened  up  a  new 
field  in  American  literature,  which  has  heen  thoroughly  worked  by  its 
first  discoverer.  Until  these  sketches  were  published,  no  idea  was  en 
tertained  of  the  rich  stores  of  folk-lore  among  the  negroes  of  the  South. 
These  stories  undoubtedly  owe  something  to  their  editor,  and  Uncle 
Remus  himself  is  a  unique  creation.  Yet  no  one  questions  that  they 
are  in  the  main  due  to  the  negro  imagination.  And  it  is  of  interest, 
in  this  connection,  to  find  that  the  fox  of  European  folk-lore  is  here 
replaced  by  Brother  Rabbit,  who  acts  as  the  cunning  mischief-maker 
throughout  this  whole  range  of  fable-literature.] 

ONE  night  when  the  little  boy  made  his  usual  visit  to 
Uncle  Remus,  he  found  the  old  man  sitting  up  in  his  chair 
fast  asleep.  The  child  said  nothing.  He  was  prepared  to 
exercise  a  good  deal  of  patience  upon  occasion,  and  the 
occasion  was  when  he  wanted  to  hear  a  story.  But,  in 
making  hhnself  comfortable,  he  aroused  Uncle  Remus 
from  his  nap. 

"  I  let  you  know,  honey,"  said  the  old  man,  adjusting 
his  spectacles,  and  laughing  rather  sheepishly, — "  I  let 
you  know,  honey,  w'en  I  gits  my  head  r'ar'd  back  dat 
away,  en  my  eyeleds  shot,  en  my  mouf  open,  en  my  chin 
p'intin'  at  de  rafters,  den  dey's  some  mighty  quare  g  wines- 
on  in  my  min'.  Dey  is  dat,  des  ez  sho  ez  youer  settin'  dar. 
Wen  I  fus  year  you  comin'  down  de  paf,"  Uncle  Remus 


HARRIS]          THE  MOON  IN  THE  MILL-POND.  239 

continued,  rubbing  his  beard  thoughtfully,  "  I  'uz  sorter 
fear'd  you  mought  'spicion  dat  I  done  gone  off  on  my 
journeys  fer  ter  see  ole  man  Nod." 

This  was  accompanied  by  a  glance  of  inquiry,  to  which 
the  little  boy  thought  it  best  to  respond. 

"  Well,  Uncle  Eemus,"  he  said,  "  I  did  think  I  heard 
you  snoring  when  I  came  in." 

"  Now  you  see  dat !"  exclaimed  Uncle  Kemus,  in  a  tone 
of  grieved  astonishment ;  "you  see  dat!  Man  can't  lean 
hisse'f  'pun  his  'membunce,  'ceppin'  dey's  some  un  fer  ter 
come  high-primin'  roun'  en  'lowin'  dat  he  done  gone  ter 
sleep.  Shoo !  Wen  you  stept  in  dat  do'  dar  I  'uz  right 
in  'mungs  some  mighty  quare  notions, — mighty  quare 
notions.  Dey  ain't  no  two  ways ;  ef  I  'uz  ter  up  en  let 
on  'bout  all  de  notions  w'at  I  gits  in  'mungs,  folks  'ud 
hatter  come  en  kyar  me  off  ter  de  place  where  dey  puts 
'stracted  people. 

"Atter  I  sop  up  my  supper,"  Uncle  Kermis  went  on, 
"  I  tuck'n  year  some  flutterments  up  dar  'mungs  de  rafters, 
en  I  look  up,  en  dar  wuz  a  Bat  sailin'  'roun'.  'Eoun'  en 
'roun',  en  'roun'  she  go, — und'  de  rafters,  'bove  de  rafters, 
— en  ez  she  sail  she  make  noise  lak  she  grittin'  'er  toofies. 
JSTow,  w'at  dat  Bat  atter,  I  be  bless  ef  I  kin  tell  you,  but 
dar  she  wuz ;  'roun'  en  'roun',  over  en  under.  I  ax  'or 
w'at  do  she  want  up  dar,  but  she  ain't  got  no  time  fer 
ter  tell ;  'roun'  en  'roun',  en  over  en  under.  En  bimeby, 
out  she  flip,  en  I  boun'  she  grittin'  'er  toofies  en  gwine 
'roun'  en  'roun'  out  dar,  en  dodgin'  en  flippin'  des  lak  de 
elements  wuz  full  er  rafters  en  cobwebs. 

"Wen  she  flip  out  I  le'nt  my  head  back,  I  did,  en 
'twa'n't  no  time  'fo'  I  git  mix  up  wid  my  notions.  Dat 
Bat  wings  so  limber  en  'er  will  so  good  dat  she  done  done 
'er  day's  work  dar  'fo'  you  could  'er  run  ter  de  big  house 
en  back.  De  Bat  put  me  in  min'  er  folks,"  continued 


240  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

"Uncle  Remus,  settling  himself  back  in  his  chair,  "  en  folks 
put  me  in  min'  er  de  creeturs." 

Immediately  the  little  boy  was  all  attention. 

"Dey  wuz  times,"  said  the  old  man,  with  something 
like  a  sigh,  "w'en  de  creeturs  'ud  segashuate  tergedder 
des  like  dey  ain't  had  no  fallin'  out.  Dem  wuz  de  times 
w'en  old  Brer  Rabbit  'ud  'ten'  lak  he  gwine  quit  he 
'havishness,  en  dey'd  all  go  'roun'  des  lak  dey  b'long  ter 
de  same  fambly  connection. 

"  One  time  atter  dey  bin  gwine  in  cohoots  dis  away, 
Brer  Rabbit  'gun  ter  feel  his  fat,  he  did,  en  dis  make  'im 
gLt  projecky  terreckly.  De  mo'  peace  w'at  dey  had,  de 
mo'  wuss  Brer  Rabbit  feel,  twel  bimeby  he  git  restless  in 
de  min'.  Wen  de  sun  shine  he'd  go  en  lay  off  in  de  grass 
en  kick  at  de  gnats,  en  nibble  at  de  mullen-stalk,  en  wal 
ler  in  de  san'.  One  night  atter  supper,  w'iles  he  'uz  ro- 
mancin'  'roun',  he  run  up  wid  ole  Brer  Tarrypin,  en  atter 
dey  shuck  ban's  dey  sot  down  on  de  side  er  de  road  en 
run  on  'bout  ole  times.  Dey  talk  en  dey  talk,  dey  did,  en 
bimeby  Brer  Rabbit  say  it  done  come  ter  dat  pass  whar 
he  bleedz  ter  have  some  fun,  en  Brer  Tarrypin  'low  dat 
Brer  Rabbit  des  de  ve'y  man  he  bin  lookin'  fer. 

" '  "Well,  den,'  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee,  '  we'll  des  put 
Brer  Fox,  en  Brer  Wolf,  en  Brer  B'ar  on  notice,  en  ter- 
morrer  night  we'll  meet  down  by  de  mill-pon'  en  have  a 
little  fishin'-frolic.  I'll  do  de  talkin','  sez  Brer  Rabbit, 
aezee,  '  en  you  kin  set  back  en  say  yea,'  sezee. 

"  Brer  Tarrypin  laugh. 

" '  Ef  I  ain't  dar,'  sezee,  '  den  you  may  know  de  grass 
hopper  done  fly  'way  wid  me,'  sezee. 

"  '  En  you  neenter  bring  no  fiddle,  n'er,'  sez  Brer  Rabbit, 
eezee,  '  kaze  dey  ain't  gwine  ter  be  no  dancin'  dar,'  sezee. 

"  Wid  dat,"  continued  Uncle  Remus,  "  Brer  Rabbit  put 
out  fer  home,  en  went  ter  bed,  en  Brer  Tarrypin  bruise 


HAKRIS]          THE  MOON  IN  THE  MILL-POND.  24 i 

'roun'  en  make  his  way  todes  de  place  so  he  kin  be  dar 
'gin  de  'p'inted  time. 

"  Nex'  day  Brer  Rabbit  sont  wud  ter  de  yuther  creeturs, 
en  dey  all  make  great  'miration,  kaze  dey  ain't  think  'bout 
dis  deyse'f.  Brer  Fox  he  'low,  he  did,  dat  he  gwine  atter 
Miss  Meadows  en  Miss  Motts,  en  de  yuther  gals. 

"  Sho  nutf,  w'en  de  time  come  dey  wuz  all  dar.  Brer 
B'ar  he  fotch  a  hook  en  line ;  Brer  Wolf  he  fotch  a  hook 
en  line ;  Brer  Fox  he  fotch  a  dip-net ;  en  Brer  Tarrypin, 
not  ter  be  outdone,  he  fotch  de  bait." 

"  What  did  Miss  Meadows  and  Miss  Motts  bring  ?"  the 
little  boy  asked. 

Uncle  Remus  dropped  his  head  slightly  to  one  side,  and 
looked  over  his  spectacles  at  the  little  boy. 

(l  Miss  Meadows  en  Miss  Motts,"  he  continued,  "  dey 
tuck'n  stan'  way  back  fum  de  aidge  er  de  pon'  en  squeal 
eve'y  time  Brer  Tarrypin  shuck  de  box  er  bait  at  um. 
Brer  B'ar  'low  he  gwine  ter  fish  fer  mud-cats ;  Brer  Wolf 
'low  he  gwine  ter  fish  fer  horneyheads ;  Brer  Fox  'low  he 
gwine  ter  fish  fer  peerch  fer  de  ladies ;  Brer  Tarrypin  'low 
he  gwine  ter  fish  fer  minners ;  en  Brer  Rabbit  wink  at 
Brer  Tarrypin'  en  'low  he  gwine  ter  fish  fer  suckers. 

"  Dey  all  git  ready,  dey  did,  en  Brer  Rabbit  march  up 
'ter  de  pon'  en  make  fer  ter  th'ow  he  hook  in  de  water, 
but  des  'bout  dat  time  hit  seem  lak  he  see  sump'n,  De 
t'er  creeturs,  dey  stop  en  watch  his  motions.  Brer  Rab^ 
bit  he  drap  he  pole,  he  did,  en  he  stan'  dar  scratchin'  ho 
head  en  lookin'  down  in  de  water. 

"  De  gals  dey  'gun  ter  git  oneasy  w'en  dey  see  dis,  en 
Miss  Meadows  she  up  en  holler  out,  she  did, — 

"  '  Law,  Brer  Rabbit,  w'at  de  name  er  goodness  de  marter 
in  dar?' 

"Brer  Rabbit  scratch  he  head  an  look  in  de  water. 
Miss  Motts  she  hilt  up  'er  petticoats,  she  did,  en  'low  she 

II. — L          q  21 


242  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HARRIS 

monstus  fear'd  er  snakes.  Brer  Eabbit  keep  on  scratchin' 
en  lookin'. 

"  Bimeby  he  fetch  a  long  bref,  he  did,  en  he  'low, — 

"  '  Ladies  en  gentermuns  all,  we  des  might  ez  well  make 
tracks  fum  dish  yer  place,  kaze  dey  ain't  no  fishin'  in  dat 
pon'  fer  none  er  dish  yer  crowd.' 

"  Wid  dat,  Brer  Tarrypin  he  scramble  up  ter  de  aidgo 
en  look  over,  en  he  shake  he  head,  en  'low, — 

"'Tooby  sho',— tooby  sho' !  Tut-tut-tut !'  en  den  he 
crawl  back,  he  did,  en  do  lak  he  wukkin'  he  min.' 

" '  Don't  be  skeert,  ladies,  kaze  we'er  boun'  ter  take  keer 
un  you,  let  come  w'at  will,  let  go  w'at  mus','  sez  Brer 
Eabbit,  sezee.  'Accidents  got  ter  happen  unter  we  all, 
des  same  ez  dey  is  unter  yuther  folks ;  en  dey  ain't  nuth- 
in'  much  de  marter,  'ceppin'  dat  de  Moon  done  drap  in  do 
water.  Ef  you  don't  b'leeve  me  you  kin  look  fer  yo'se'f,' 
sezee. 

"  Wid  dat  dey  all  went  ter  de  bank  en  lookt  in  ;  en,  sho' 
nuff,  dar  lay  de  Moon,  a-swingin'  en  a-swayin'  at  de  bot 
tom  er  de  pon'." 

The  little  boy  laughed.  He  had  often  seen  the  reflec 
tion  of  the  sky  in  shallow  pools  of  water,  and  the  start 
ling  depths  that  seemed  to  lie  at  his  feet  had  caused  him 
to  draw  back  with  a  shudder. 

"  Brer  Fox  he  look  in,  he  did,  en  he  'low,  '  "Well,  well, 
well !'  Brer  Wolf  he  look  in,  en  he  'low,  '  Mighty  bad, 
mighty  bad !'  Brer  B'ar  he  look  in,  en  he  'low,  '  Turn, 
turn,  turn  I'  Be  ladies  dey  look  in,  en  Miss  Meadows  sho 
squall  out,  ( Ain't  dat  too  much  ?'  Brer  Rabbit  he  look  in 
ag'in,  en  he  up  en  'low,  he  did, — 

" '  Ladies  en  gentermuns,  you  all  kin  hum  en  haw,  but 
less'n  we  gits  dat  Moon  out  er  de  pon'  dey  ain't  no  fish 
kin  be  ketch  'roun'  yer  dis  night ;  en  ef  you'll  ax  Brer 
Tarrypin  he'll  tell  you  de  same.' 


HARRIS]          THE  MOON  IN  THE  MILL-POND.  243 

"  Den  dey  ax  how  kin  dey  git  de  Moon  out  er  dar,  en 
Brer  Tarrypin  'low  dey  better  lef '  dat  wid  Brer  Eabbit. 
Brer  Eabbit  lie  shot  he  eyes,  he  did,  en  make  lak  he  wuk- 
kin  he  min'.  Bimeby  he  up  'n'  'low, — 

" '  De  nigb.es'  way  out'n  dish  yer  diffikil  is  fer  ter  sen' 
roun'  yer  too  ole  Mr.  Mud-Turkle  en  borry  his  sane,  en 
drag  dat  Moon  up  fum  dar,'  sezee. 

" '  I  'clar  ter  gracious  I  mighty  glad  you  mention  dat,' 
says  Brer  Tarrypin,  sezee.  '  Mr.  Mud-Turkle  is  setch  clos't 
kin  ter  me  dat  I  calls  'im  Unk  Muck,  en  I  lay  ef  you  sen' 
dar  atter  dat  sane  you  won't  fine  Unk  Muck  so  mighty 
disaccomerdatin.' 

"  "Well,"  continued  Uncle  Eemus,  after  one  of  his  tan 
talizing  pauses,  "  dey  sont  atter  de  sane,  en  w'iles  Brer 
Eabbit  wuz  gone,  Brer  Tarrypin  he  'low  dat  he  done  year 
tell  time  en  time  ag'in  dat  dem  w'at  fine  de  Moon  in  de 
water  en  fetch  'im  out,  lakwise  dey  ull  fetch  out  a  pot  er 
money.  Dis  make  Brer  Fox,  en  Brer  Wolf,  en  Brer  B'ar 
feel  mighty  good,  en  dey  'low,  dey  did,  dat  long  ez  Brer 
Eabbit  been  so  good  ez  ter  run  atter  de  sane,  dey  ull  do 
de  sanein'. 

"  Time  Brer  Eabbit  git  back,  he  see  how  de  Ian'  lay,  en 
he  make  lak  he  wanter  go  in  atter  de  Moon.  He  pull  off 
he  coat,  en  he  'uz  fixin'  fer  ter  shuck  he  wescut,  but  de 
yuther  creeters  dey  'low  dey  wan't  gwine  ter  let  dry-foot 
man  lak  Brer  Eabbit  go  in  de  water.  So  Brer  Fox  he 
tuck  holt  er  one  staff  er  de  sane,  Brer  Wolf  he  tuck  holt 
er  de  yuther  staff,  en  Brer  B'ar  he  wade  'long  behime  fer 
ter  lif  de  sane  'cross  logs  en  snags. 

"  Dey  make  one  haul — no  Moon  ;  n'er  haul — no  Moon , 
n'er  haul — no  Moon.  Den  bimeby  dey  git  out  furder  fum 
de  bank.  Water  run  in  Brer  Fox  year,  he  shake  he  head ; 
water  run  in  Brer  Wolf  year,  he  shake  he  head ;  water 
run  in  Brer  B'ar  year,  he  shake  he  head.  En  de  fus  news 


244  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [STANLEI 

you  know,  w'iles  dey  wuz  a-shakin',  dey  come  to  whar  de 
bottom  shelfed  off.  Brer  Fox  he  step  off  en  duck  hisse'f ; 
den  Brer  Wolf  duck  hisse'f;  en  Brer  B'ar  he  make  a 
splunge  en  duck  hisse'f;  en,  bless  gracious,  dey  kick  en 
splatter  twel  it  look  lak  dey  'uz  gwine  ter  slosh  all  de 
water  outer  de  mill-pon'. 

"  Wen  dey  come  out,  de  gals  'uz  all  a-snickerin'  en  a- 
gigglin',  en  dey  well  mought,  'kaze,  go  whar  you  would, 
dey  wan't  no  wuss-lookin'  creeturs  dan  dem ;  en  Brer 
Rabbit  he  holler,  sezee, — 

" '  I  speck  you  all,  gents,  better  go  home  en  git  some 
dry  duds,  en  n'er  time  we'll  be  in  better  luck,'  sezee.  '  I 
hear  talk  dat  de  Moon'll  bite  at  a  hook  ef  you  take  fools 
fer  baits,  en  I  lay  dat's  de  onliest  way  fer  ter  ketch  'er,' 
sezee. 

"Brer  Fox  en  Brer  Wolf  en  Brer  B'ar  went  drippin' 
off,  en  Brer  Rabbit  en  Brer  Tarrypin  dey  went  home  wid 
de  gals." 


LIFE  AND  SCENERY  ON  THE  CONGO. 

HENRY  M.  STANLEY. 

[Among  the  numerous  adventurous  explorers  of  modern  times  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  one  with  so  interesting  a  personal  history, 
and  with  such  indomitable  perseverance  and  ready  shrewdness  and 
energy,  as  Henry  M.  Stanley.  He  was  born  in  Wales  in  1840,  reared 
in  a  poor-house,  and  went  to  sea  at  fifteen.  Reaching  New  Orleans, 
he  changed  his  original  name  of  John  Rowlands  for  that  of  a  gentle 
man  who  had  befriended  him.  During  the  war  he  entered  the  Con 
federate  service,  was  taken  prisoner,  and  afterwards  served  in  the 
United  States  navy.  He  accompanied  the  British  army  to  Abyssinia 
in  1867  as  correspondent  of  the  New  York  Herald,  penetrated  Africa 
in  search  of  Livingstone  in  1871-72,  and  crossed  the  continent  in  the 


STANLEY]  LIFE  AND  SCENERY  ON  THE   CONGO.          245 

the  region  of  the  Congo  from  1874  to  1878.  His  work  on  "  The  Congo,'' 
from  which  we  select,  is  the  result  of  a  later  expedition  to  that  region, 
undertaken  in  the  interests  of  commerce  and  civilization,  and  as  agent 
of  the  African  International  Association  and  of  the  King  of  Belgium.] 

BEYOND  the  village  was  low  forested  land,  which  either 
came  in  dense  black  towering  masses  of  impenetrable 
vegetation  to  the  water-side,  or  else  ran  in  great  semi 
circles  half  enclosing  grassy  flats,  whereon  the  hippo 
potami  fed  at  night-time. 

The  Congo  was  now  enormously  wide;  from  five  to 
eight  channels  separated  one  from  another  by  as  many 
lines  of  islets  (some  of  which  were  miles  in  length),  on 
which  the  Landolfia  florida,  or  rubber-plant,  flourished,  of 
the  value  of  which  the  natives  as  yet  know  nothing. 
Tamarinds,  baobab,  bombax,  redwood,  Elais  guineensis, 
palm-tree,  wild  date-palm,  Calamus  indicus,  with  the  hardy 
stink-wood,  made  up  a  dense  mass  of  trees  and  creepers 
of  such  formidable  thickness  that  no  one  was  even  inspired 
to  examine  what  treasures  of  plants  might  be  revealed  by 
a  closer  investigation  of  the  vegetable  life  thriving  on 
these  humps  of  dark  alluvium  in  mid-Congo. 

Few  could  imagine  that  a  slow  ascent  up  the  Congo  in 
steamers  going  only  two  and  a  half  knots  against  the 
current  of  the  great  river  could  be  otherwise  than  monot 
onous.  Taken  as  a  whole,  the  scenery  of  the  Upper 
Congo  is  uninteresting;  perhaps  the  very  slow  rate  of 
ascent  has  left  that  impression.  But  we  were  also  tired 
of  the  highland  scenery  in  the  Lower  Congo.  We  de 
clared  ourselves  tired  of  looking  at  naked  rock  cliffs,  and 
rufous  ragged  slopes  six  hundred  feet  in  height.  Before 
we  were  through  the  circular  enlargement  of  the  Congo 
at  Stanley  Pool  we  also  confessed  ourselves  wearied ;  when 
we  voyaged  up  along  the  base  of  the  massive  mountain- 
lines  above  it  to  Chumbiri  we  sighed  for  a  change ;  and 
ii.  21* 


246  BESr  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [STANLKI 

now,  when  we  have  a  month's  journey  by  islets,  low 
shores,  of  grassy  levels,  and  banks  of  thick  vegetation 
and  forest,  we  are  menaced  with  the  same  ennui.  But  let 
us  be  just.  Our  feeling  of  weariness  arises  from  the  fact 
that  our  accommodations  are  so  limited  that  we  are 
obliged  to  sit  down  or  stand  up  all  the  long  way.  The 
eyes,  the  only  organs  exercised,  are  easily  sated.  The 
weariness  is  only  created  by  our  compulsory  inactivity. 
Our  eyes  are  feasting  continually  upon  petty  details,  oi 
the  nature  of  which  we  are  scarcely  conscious.  The  flit 
ting  of  a  tiny  sun-bird ;  the  chirping  weavers  at  their 
nests ;  the  despondent  droop  of  a  long  calamus  which 
cannot  find  support,  and  which,  like  the  woodbine,  flour 
ishes  best  when  it  has  a  tall  stem  to  cling  to ;  the  bamboo- 
like  reeds;  the  swaying  tufted  head  of  an  overgrown 
papyrus ;  the  floating  by  of  a  Pistia  stratiotes ;  a  flock 
of  screeching  parrots  hurrying  by  overhead ;  that  great 
yawning  hippopotamus  lazily  preparing  for  a  plunge  into 
his  watery  bed ;  that  log-like  form  of  the  crocodile,  roused 
from  his  meditations,  loath  to  go,  but  compelled  by  the 
whirr  of  paddle-wheels  to  submerge  himself;  those 
springing  monkeys,  skurrying  in  their  leafy  homes  away 
from  the  increasing  noise ;  that  white-collared  fish-eagle 
outspreading  his  wings  for  flight ;  that  darting  diver  and 
little  kingfisher  hurrying  ahead,  heralding  our  approach ; 
yonder  flock  of  black  ibis  alarmingly  screaming  their 
harsh  cries;  that  little  blue-throated  fantail  which  has 
just  hopped  away  from  the  yellow- blossomed  acacia-bush  ; 
those  little  industrious  wagtails  pecking  away  so  briskly 
on  the  sandy  strip  by  the  edge  of  the  forest ;  there  is  a 
jay  which  has  just  fled  into  the  woods ;  look  at  those 
long-legged  flamingoes  at  that  spit  of  land ;  and — but  the 
details  are  endless,  for  every  minute  of  time  has  its  inci 
dent.  As  for  your  own  fancies,  during  this  day-trance, 


STANLEY]  LIFE  AND  SCENERY  ON  THE  CONGO.          247 

created  mainly  by  what  you  see  as  the  banks  glide 
steadily  past,  who  will  dare  to  fathom  them  ?  They  come 
in  rapid  succession  on  the  mind,  in  various  shapes,  rank 
after  rank.  Unsteadfast  as  the  gray  clouds  which  you 
see  to  the  westward,  they  pile  into  cities,  and  towns,  and 
mountains,  growing  ever  larger,  more  intense,  but  still 
ever  wavering  and  undergoing  quick  transitions  of  form. 
The  flowing  river;  the  vast  dome  of  sky;  the  aspiring 
clouds  on  the  horizon;  the  purpling  blue,  as  well  as  the 
dark  spectral  isles  of  the  stream;  the  sepulchral  gloom 
beneath  the  impervious  forest  foliage;  those  swaying 
reeds ;  that  expanse  of  sere-colored  grassy  plain ;  that 
gray  clay  bank,  speckled  with  the  red  roots  of  some 
shrub ;  that  narrow  pathway  through  the  forest — all  sug 
gest  some  new  thought,  some  fancy  which  cannot  be  long 
pursued,  since  it  is  constantly  supplanted  by  other  ideas 
suggested  by  something  new,  which  itself  is  but  a  mo 
mentary  flash. 

But  supposing  that  a  steamer  similar  to  those  we  have 
on  the  Mississippi  bore  you  up  the  Congo,  rushing  up 
stream  at  the  rate  of  twelve  knots  an  hour  against  the 
current,  while  you  could  travel  up  and  down  a  long,  broad 
deck  protected  by  a  sun-proof  awning,  with  luxurious 
board  and  lodging  at  your  command,  your  view  of  the 
Congo  would  be  very  different.  I  do  believe  you  would 
express  a  preference  for  it  to  any  river  known  to  you. 
You  would  naturally  think  of  comparisons.  The  Rhine  ? 
Why,  the  Rhine,  even  including  its  most  picturesque 
parts,  is  only  a  microscopic  miniature  of  the  Lower 
Congo;  but  we  must  have  the  Rhine  steamer,  and  its 
wine  and  food  and  accommodations,  to  be  able  to  see  it 
properly.  The  Mississippi?  The  Congo  is  one  and  a 
half  times  larger  than  the  Mississippi,  and  certainly  from 
eight  to  ten  times  broader.  You  may  take  your  choice 


248  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [STANLEY 

of  nearly  a  dozen  channels,  and  you  will  see  more  beauti 
ful  vegetation  on  the  Congo  than  on  the  American  river. 
The  latter  lacks  the  palm  and  the  calamus,  while  the 
former  has  a  dozen  varieties  of  the  palm.  Besides,  it 
possesses  herds  of  hippopotami,  crocodiles  innumerable; 
monkeys  are  gleefully  romping  on  the  islands  and  the 
main ;  elephants  are  standing  sentry-like  in  the  twilight 
of  the  dark  forests  by  the  river-side;  buffaloes  red  and 
black  are  grazing  on  the  rich  grass-plains ;  there  are 
flocks  of  ibis,  black  and  white  parrots,  paroquets,  and 
guinea-fowl.  The  Mississippi  is  a  decent  grayish-colored 
stream,  confined  between  two  low  banks,  with  here  and 
there  a  town  of  frame  houses  and  brick.  The  Congo  is 
of  a  tea-color  on  its  left  half,  and  on  its  right  half  it  is 
nearly  chalky  white.  You  take  your  choice,  tea  or  milk, 
red  or  Rhine  wine.  And  as  for  the  towns,  why,  I  hope 
the  all-gracious  Providence  will  bless  our  labor,  and  they 
will  come  by  and  by:  meantime  there  is  room  enough, 
and  to  spare,  to  stow  the  half  of  Europe  comfortably  on 
its  spacious  borders.  The  Nile  ?  Ask  any  of  those  gal 
lant  English  soldiers  who  have  tugged  their  way  among 
the  Nile  cataracts,  what  they  think  of  the  Nile  to  spend 
a  holiday  upon.  The  Danube  ?  Ah,  it  is  not  to  be  men 
tioned  with  the  Congo  for  scenery.  The  Volga?  Still 
worse.  The  Amazon  ?  By  no  means.  You  will  have  to 
ascend  very  far  up  the  Amazon  before  you  will  see  any 
thing  approaching  Congo  scenery. 

Well,  you  must  admit,  then,  that  if  the  Congo  could  be 
seen  from  the  deck  of  a  commodious  steamer,  this  feeling 
of  weariness  which  we  have  to  contend  against  now  while 

o 

ascending  at  this  snail's  pace  against  the  current,  because 
we  have  no  room  to  move  about,  would  be  replaced  by  a 
more  grateful  and  a  cheerier  mood. 
At  5  P.M.  we  generally  camp,  after  an  advance  of  from 


STANLEY]  LIFE  AND  SCENERY  ON  THE  CONGO.          249 

twenty  to  thirty  miles  up  river.  Thirty  miles  would  be 
unusually  good  progress,  because  there  is  fuel  to  be  cut 
with  axes  and  saws,  and  it  will  take  till  nine  o'clock  at 
night  to  cut  sufficient  for  next  day's  steaming.  From  5 
to  6.30  P.M.  all  hands  excepting  the  cooks  are  engaged  in 
gathering  wood,  half-dead  logs,  or  dead  trees,  which  have 
to  be  cut  into  portable  sizes  for  transport  to  the  camp. 
When  darkness  falls,  a  great  fire  is  lit,  under  the  light  of 
which  the  wood-choppers  fall  to  and  cut  the  logs  into  foot 
lengths  for  the  boilers.  The  sound  of  smiting  axes  rings 
through  the  dark  grove,  to  be  re-echoed  by  the  opposite 
forest  and  borne  along  the  face  of  the  river  to  a  great 
distance.  It  is  varied  by  the  woodman's  chant ;  a  chorus 
is  struck  up,  and  under  its  stirring  vocal  notes  a  new  im 
petus  is  given,  and  the  axes  are  struck  stirringly  rapid. 
What  a  moral  lesson  for  vapid-minded  white  men  might 
be  drawn  from  these  efforts  of  untutored  blacks  to  get 
through  their  tasks ! 

Meantime,  at  dusk,  each  steamer's  crew  of  white  officers 
and  passengers  will  be  found  around  their  dinner-tables 
on  deck,  or  on  the  bank  if  the  camp  has  permitted  it, — 
the  lamplight  tingeing  their  faces  with  a  rosier  hue  than 
the  sallow  complexion  which  the  sun  has  bestowed  on 
them. 

Of  food  there  is  abundance,  but  not  much  variety.  It 
may  comprise  soup  of  beans  or  vegetables,  followed  by 
toasted  chikwanga  (cassava  bread),  fried  or  stewed  fowl, 
a  roast  fowl,  or  a  roast  leg  of  goat-meat,  a  dish  of  desic 
cated  potatoes,  and,  if  we  have  been  fortunate  in  our  pur 
chases,  some  sweet  potatoes,  or  yams,  roast  bananas, 
boiled  beans,  rice  and  curry,  or  rice  with  honey,  or  rice 
and  milk,  finishing  with  tea,  or  coffee,  or  palm-wine. 

It  is  insipid  food  for  breakfast  and  dinner  throughout 
a  term  of  three  years.  A  few  months  of  this  diet  makes 


250  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [STANLEY 

the  European  sigh  for  his  petit  verre,  Astrachan  caviar, 
mock-turtle,  salmon, — with  sauce  Hollandaise, — filet  de 
bceuf,  with  perhaps  a  pastete  and  poularde  mit  compote  und 
salat.  For,  if  a  German,  how  ever  can  he  live  without  his 
dear  compote?  Then,  how  nice,  he  thinks,  would  fruit, 
cheese,  and  dessert  be  on  the  Congo!  How  glorious  a 
view  of  Congo  life  one  could  take  when  exhilarated  by 
half  a  pint  of  champagne  ! 

I  think,  indeed,  that  the  eternal  "  fowl"  of  the  Congo, 
and  the  unvarying  slices  of  chikwanga,  with  which  our 
young  officers  are  fed,  deserve  three-fourths  of  the  blame 
now  lavished  on  "  murderous  Africa."  It  is  only  a  grand 
moral  manhood  like  Livingstone's  that  rises  above  these 
petty  vanities  of  a  continental  stomach.  Think  of  his 
thirty-two  years'  life  in  Africa,  and  of  the  unsophisticated 
manikins  who  to-day  are  digging  their  eyes  out  with 
weeping  at  the  memories  of  a  European  restaurant  before 
they  have  been  scarcely  three  months  out ! 

There  is  not  much  to  converse  about  on  the  Congo  after 
our  stomachs  are  full  of  the  heavy  chikwanga,  and,  as  we 
all  know  that 

"  The  time  of  life  is  short ; 
To  spend  that  little  basely  were  too  long," 

we  retire  early,  to  spend  it  well  in  sleeping,  that  we  may 
be  better  fitted  for  the  next  day's  weary  voyaging  up  the 
great  African  river. 

Ungende  was  our  first  night's  camp  above  Bolobo. 
The  By-yanzi  were  very  friendly  at  first,  but  at  sunset 
their  fears  made  them  hostile,  and  they  were  not  quieted 
until  all  our  people  were  ordered  to  make  their  reedy 
couches  near  the  steamers. 

The  next  day  we  travelled  up  by  very  pleasant  hills. 
We  passed  villages,  banana-groves,  palmy  groups,  and 


STANLEY]  LIFE  AND  SCENERY  ON  THE   CONGO.          251 

deep-green  forest  in  agreeable  alternations.  These  are 
the  Levy  Hills,  and  end  at  the  magnificent  and  airy  red 
bluffs  of  lyumbi.  The  people  looked  out  upon  us  in 
stupid  wonder  from  under  the  shade  of  their  bananas, 
seemingly  saying,  "  What  curious  phase  of  existence  have 
we  entered  upon  now  ?  Yerily,  an  epoch  has  dawned 
upon  our  lives ;  but  what  it  signifies  let  those  answer  who 
can !" 

And  we,  looking  out  from  under  our  awnings,  appear 
to  say,  "  Ay,  gaze,  O  men  and  women,  upon  these  three 
symbols  of  civilization.  Ye  see  things  to-day  which  the 
oldest  and  wisest  inhabitant  of  your  land  never  heard  or 
dreamed  of;  and  yet  they  are  but  tiny  types  of  self- 
moving  leviathans  that  plough  the  raging  sea  by  night  as 
well  as  by  day  1" 

Two  hours  above  lyumbi  we  lost  our  way.  The  chan 
nels  were  numerous.  A  reedy  flat  had  appeared  above 
lyumbi,  to  which  we  clung  in  order  not  to  lose  sight  of 
the  mainland ;  and  coming  to  a  narrow  creek  we  ran  in, 
expecting,  although  its  direction  was  a  little  too  easterly, 
that  perhaps  we  should  emerge  on  the  Congo.  There  was 
a  sluggish  current  in  it,  and  we  kept  on,  but  after  seven 
teen  miles  it  narrowed,  and  reeds  finally  stopped  further 
passage,  and  we  had  to  return,  opposite  the  village  of 
Ikulu. 

We  had  not  perceived  many  villages  as  we  had  steamed 
along ;  but  in  coming  back  we  sighted  about  twenty  canoes 
in  the  creek  advancing  towards  us.  They  had  appeared 
from  some  direction  through  the  reeds.  These,  on  seeing 
us,  hastily  turned  back ;  but,  wishing  to  know  from  them 
which  route  to  take,  the  En  Avant  cast  off  the  whale- 
boat  which  she  had  been  towing,  and  steamed  after  them 
at  full  speed. 

Not  until  we  had  run  five  miles  could  we  overtake  the 


252  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [STANLEY 

flying  flotilla,  and  then  we  found  that  their  crews  were 
women,  who,  to  escape  us,  dashed  into  the  reeds  and 
splashed  clumsily  with  water  up  to  their  necks  to  reach 
the  shore.  Not  a  word  would  they  answer,  but  stood,  on 
reaching  the  shore,  sulkily  regarding  us.  As  we  steamed 
six  knots  an  hour,  an  idea  may  be  gained  of  the  speed 
which  the  natives  when  pressed  in  their  canoes  attain. 
These  also  were  mere  fishing-pirogues.  Had  they  been 
war-canoes  it  is  likely  our  steamer  would  have  been  beaten 
in  the  race. 

On  the  31st  of  May  we  had  a  tolerably  fair  journey,  but 
the  wind  blew  down  river,  and  impeded  us.  Two  trading- 
canoes,  with  twenty  paddlers  in  each,  were  overtaken, 
which  kept  pace  with  us  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  camped 
sociably  with  us  on  a  park-like  terrace,  which  showed  soft 
young  grass,  while  the  forest  ran  in  a  deep  black  semi 
circle  behind  us.  The  By-yanzi  canoe-men  were  bound 
for  Ubangi. 

On  the  1st  of  June,  after  following  a  dense  forest  for 
nine  hours,  we  drew  near  another  settlement.  Our  pro 
visions  were  running  exceedingly  low.  Eighty  colored 
men  and  seven  Europeans  consume  at  least  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds'  weight  of  food  daily.  Since  leaving  Bo- 
lobo,  nearly  half  a  ton  weight  of  provisions  had  been  eaten. 
It  behooved  us  then  to  prepare  ourselves  for  barter  with 
the  community  in  view,  which  our  guides  called  Lukolela 

The  settlement  ran  along  a  crescented  bend  of  the  river, 
above  a  steep  clay  bank  ranging  from  five  feet  to  twenty- 
five  feet  above  the  water,  in  a  clearing  cut  out  of  the  finest 
forest  I  had  yet  seen.  The  trees  had  not  been  much 
thinned,  so  that  from  a  distance,  but  for  the  gray  gleam 
of  huts  and  the  green  sheen  of  bananas,  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  tell  that  a  settlement  so  large  as  Lukolela 
existed  here.  The  islands  also  showed  glorious  growths 


STANLEY]  LIFE  AND  SCENERY  ON  THE  CONGO.          253 

of  timber.  We  began  steaming  slowly  tbe  while,  to  in 
itiate  acquaintance  at  the  very  lowest  village.  There 
was  no  answer  rendered,  but  the  groups  of  bronze-bodied 
people  grew  larger  and  more  numerous.  We  unrolled  crim 
son  savelist,  bright-red  royal  handkerchiefs,  striped  floren- 
tines,  lengths  of  blue  baft,  held  out  fistfuls  of  brass  rods, 
and  suspended  long  necklaces  of  brightest  beads.  Msenne 
of  Mswata  stood  up  on  the  cabin-deck  of  the  En  Avant, 
the  observed  of  all  observers,  admired  for  his  pose  and  his 
action,  and  delivered  his  oration  with  a  voice  which  might 
be  envied  by  an  auctioneer : 

"  Ho,  Wy-yanzi,  tribesmen  of  Lukolela,  sons  of  luka  and 
Mungawa,  whose  names  are  beloved  by  my  lord  and  chief 
Gobila !  Ho,  you  men  !  Know  you  not  Gobila, — Gobila 
of  Mswata,  the  friend  of  Wy-yanzi  ?  Said  Gobila  to  me, 
'  Here,  take  Bula  Matari,  the  only  Bula  Matari,  the  good 
Bula  Matari !' " 

"  Hush,  Msenne !  that  is  not  the  way  to  speak.  You 
are  laughing  at  me,"  I  urged,  for  my  modesty  waa 
shocked. 

"  Never  mind ;  Msenne  knows  the  way  into  the  heart 
of  the  Wy-yanzi.  Ha !  it  takes  me  to  conquer  their  ob 
duracy. 

"  Wy-yanzi  of  Lukolela,  here  sits  Bula  Matari !  He  has 
come  here  to  make  friends  with  you.  He  wants  food.  He 
is  prepared  to  pay  well.  Now  is  the  time  for  luka  and 
Mungawa  to  show  themselves  kind  friends  to  Bula  Matari." 

Then  up  and  spoke  Ibaka's  slaver: 

"  See  here,  men  of  Lukolela,  we  are  the  servants  of 
Ibaka, — Ibaka  of  Bolobo !  Ibaka  has  made  brotherhood 
with  Bula  Matari.  Ibaka  commanded  us  to  take  him  to 
you.  Let  your  chiefs,  luka  and  Mungawa,  come  out  and 
give  the  good  word." 

The  steamers  held  on  their  way.  The  stentorian  accents 
ii.  22 


254  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [STANLKI 

of  IVTsenne  were  heard  far  above  the  escape  of  waste  steam. 
The  cloths  were  unrolled  before  every  village.  At  the 
third  village,  however,  a  reply  came  that  all  the  chiefs 
were  dead,  and  that  small-pox  had  decimated  the  inhab 
itants,  and  that  famine  was  killing  the  people  that  were 
left! 

"Frightful!"  we  exclaimed.  "But  those  men  on  the 
banks  look  too  fat  to  be  suffering  from  famine." 

We  came  to  the  upper  extremity  of  the  community, 
which  occupied  about  five  miles  of  the  left  bank,  and  half 
an  hour  later  we  came  to  where  the  Congo  contracted  and 
issued  out  a  stately  united  flood  one  and  a  half  miles  wide 
from  the  right  bank  to  the  left  bank.  Hoping  that  if  we 
camped  in  the  neighborhood  we  should  be  followed,  we 
prepared  to  put  up  for  the  night  in  the  forest. 

As  we  anticipated,  the  natives  soon  came  up,  and  fowls, 
goats,  ripe  and  green  plantains  and  bananas,  cassava  rolls, 
cassava  flour,  sweet  potatoes,  yams,  eggs,  and  palm  oil 
were  bartered  so  speedily  that  by  sunset  we  had  sufficient 
to  last  two  or  three  days.  Still,  as  we  were  ignorant  how 
far  we  might  have  to  proceed  before  meeting  with  another 
market  so  well  supplied  as  this,  we  agreed  to  resume  the 
marketing  next  morning. 

At  sunrise  the  following  day  canoe  after  canoe  appeared, 
and  the  barter  was  so  successfully  conducted  that  we  had 
soon  secured  three  dozen  fowls,  four  goats,  a  sheep,  and  eight 
days'  rations  for  each  member  of  the  colored  force.  The 
fear  the  natives  entertained  of  the  strange  steamer  was 
now  changed  for  liveliest  admiration.  We  were  no  longer 
supposed  to  be  laden  with  mischief,  but  full  of  "good 
things."  They  had  informed  us  that  they  were  dying  of 
famine  yesterday,  but  this  day  plenty  had  come  back  to 
them,  their  chiefs  lived,  and  no  plague  or  pest  decimated 
the  people  1 


MORBIS]  THE  CONDITIONS  OF  ENGLISH  THOUGHT.       255 

We  asked  them  slyly  what  was  the  cause  of  this  re 
markable  change. 

"  Oh,"  they  replied,  "  why  do  you  remember  what  we 
said  in  our  fear  of  you  ?  Neither  our  oldest  people  nor 
their  fathers  before  them  ever  saw  or  heard  of  such  things 
as  these,"  pointing  to  the  steamers. 


THE  CONDITIONS  OF  ENGLISH  THOUGHT. 

GEORGE  S.  MORRIS. 

[America,  like  England,  has  few  thinkers  of  a  philosophical  turn 
of  mind, — if  we  accept  the  word  "  philosophy"  in  its  metaphysical 
interpretation.  "We  are  too  practical  a  people  for  that,  and  by  no 
means  inclined,  like  so  many  of  the  Germans,  to  evolve  a  universe  out 
of  the  purely  ideal, — very  pretty  to  look  at,  but  with  no  more  solid 
substratum  than  the  tail  of  a  comet.  Yet  we  are  not  quite  without 
writers  of  a  metaphysical  turn  of  thought,  and  our  present  extract  is 
from  one  of  these,  Mr.  G.  S.  Morris,  late  professor  of  philosophy 
in  Johns  Hopkins  University,  Baltimore,  author  of  "  British  Thought 
and  Thinkers,"  and  editor  of  an  American  edition  of  the  works  of  the 
principal  German  philosophers,  now  in  course  of  publication.] 

SCHOPENHAUER  made  a  familiar  thought  famous  by 
putting  it  in  a  simple  but  striking  and  epigrammatic 
form.  Die  Welt  ist  meine  Vorstellung,  said  he.  The  world 
is  for  me  an  idea.  It  is  a  representation  in  my  mind.  To 
how  many  of  us  has  not  this  thought  occurred,  with  some 
thing  of  a  dazing,  dreamy  effect,  as  we  have  mused  on 
the  complete  dependence  of  our  idea  of  the  universe,  or 
all  that  therein  may  be,  on  our  own  minds  1  I  can  re 
member  how,  as  a  mere  boy,  more  than  once,  in  an  even 
ing  revery,  an  experience  somewhat  in  this  vein  came  to 


256  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [MORRIS 

me.  All  my  boyish  ideas  of  things  seemed,  as  pure  crea 
tions  of  my  own  fancy,  to  melt  away,  and  there  remained, 
as  the  whole  sum  and  substance  of  the  universe,  only  the 
abstract,  but  otherwise  empty  and  uninstructive,  and,  by 
any  law  of  sufficient  reason,  inexplicable,  necessity  of  being, 
plus  a  dull,  confused,  and  yet  thoroughly  unique,  and  for 
this  reason  indescribable,  sensation,  as  of  a  chaos  of  shape 
less  elementSj  moving  noiselessly  among  each  other, — a 
plenum  of  scarcely  greater  value  than  an  absolute  vacuum. 
Then  came  the  return  to  what  is  termed  the  literal  fact 
of  experience,  or,  better,  to  the  world  such  as,  under  the 
influence  of  a  dawning  mental  activity,  guided  by  sensi 
tive  experience  and  by  instruction,  it  had  actually  shaped 
itself  in  my  imagination, — the  earth,  with  its  green  fields 
and  forest-covered  mountains,  the  world-inhabited  heavens, 
the  changing  seasons,  man  and  his  past  history  and  unre- 
vealed  earthly  destiny,  not  to  mention  the  myriad  little 
and  familiar  things  which  would  necessarily  crowd  the 
foreground  of  such  a  picture  in  a  boy's  mind.  The  view 
which  a  moment  before  had  demonstrated  so  signally  its 
capability  of  dissolving,  recovered  its  relative  consistency 
and  became  again  a  slowly-changing  panorama  of  a  world, 
or  of  "  the  world,"  as  it  was  for  me.  It  was  into  such  a 
conception  of  a  world — a  conception  kaleidoscopic,  ap 
parently  half  arbitrary,  half  accidental — that  I,  following 
anwittingly  a  bent  common  to  the  universal  mind  of  man. 
was  more  or  less  blindly  seeking  to  introduce  order  and 
permanence.  What  must  be  ?  Why  must  anything  be  ? 
Why  must  all  things  be  ?  Such  a  rock  of  rational  necessity 
as  a  successful  answer  to  these  questions  would  have  fur 
nished  I  was  (though  unconscious  of  the  full  significance 
of  my  striving)  seeking,  in  order  to  arrest  and  fix  the 
quicksands  of  a  Vorstellung,  or  idea  of  the  universe,  of 
which  I  only  knew  (with  Schopenhauer)  that  it  was  mine. 


MORRIS]  THE  CONDITIONS  OF  ENGLISH  THOUGHT.       257 

I  need  hardly  say  that  the  immediate  result  of  my  reflec 
tions  was  tolerably  negative.  I  have  indicated,  however, 
in  the  narration  of  this  experience,  the  elements  of  a 
problem  which  presents  itself  to  mankind  in  all  climes 
and  ages.  It  is,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  to  effectuate  a  sort 
of  rational  anatomy  of  existence,  or,  at  least,  of  our  ideas 
of  it.  The  sea  itself  would  not  move  in  billowy  motions 
if  it  had  no  fixed  boundaries.  The  blood  flows  in  tracks 
marked  out  in  veins  and  arteries.  The  soft  and  yielding 
flesh  adheres  to  a  firm  framework  of  bone.  So  man  would 
find  in  his  whole  conception  of  things  the  skeleton  of 
rational  necessity,  about  which  the  multifarious  or  appar 
ently  fortuitous  elements  of  that  conception  may  group 
themselves,  or  the  rather  by  which  the  order  of  then- 
grouping  is  determined.  The  "idea"  which  was  but  a 
changing  picture  in  the  imagination — a  representation — 
must  change  to  an  idea  which  shall  be  a  rational  type, 
a  self-evidencing  law,  an  all-sufficient,  all-explaining,  all- 
necessitating  reason.  The  varying  and  inexplicable  ele 
ment  furnished  in  sense  and  sensuous  imagination  must 
crystallize  in  the  majestic  forms  of  eternal  thought,  of 
reason  divine.  It  is  this  mental  work  which  Goethe,  in 
noble  lines,  attributes  to  the  angels  who  constitute  the 
"  heavenly  hosts."  The  gracious  benediction  and  command 
which  the  Divine  Being  addresses  to  them  runs  thus : 

"  Das  TVerdende,  das  ewig  wirkt  und  lebt, 

TJmfass'  euch  mit  der  Liebe  holden  Schranken, 
Und  was  in  schwankender  Erscheinung  schwebt, 
Befestiget  mit  dauernden  Gedanken  1" 

Prolog  im  Himmel :  Faust. 

Thus  the  world  which  was  "my  idea"  (in  Schopen 
hauer's  phrase)  is  to  be  transformed,  in  its  measure,  into 
the  image,  or  rather  into  a  participation,  of  the  divine 
ii.— r  22* 


258  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [MoRHiB 

idea  of  the  world.  The  evanescent  is  to  give  way  to  the 
permanent.  The  passive  reception  of  appearances  is  to 
give  place  to  an  active  apprehension  of  realities. 

I  have  thus  stated,  in  outline,  the  grand  and  compre 
hensive  motive  which  underlies  all  finite  thought  as  such, 
and  which  therefore  reveals  itself,  clearly  or  obscurely,  in 
all  the  thought  of  man.  It  were  easy  to  show,  in  detail, 
how  it  governs  at  once  the  systematic  inquiries  of  philo 
sophical  speculation,  the  exact  inquiries  of  physical  science, 
and  the  freer  intuitions  of  poetic  fancy,  as  well  as,  also, 
the  sober  contemplations  of  history.  Nor  would  it  be 
more  difficult  to  show  that  in  this  presupposed  ideal  of 
stable  Truth — believed  to  be  attainable  for  man :  else  why 
and  how  strive  after  it? — moral  and  {esthetic  elements 
are  intrinsically  involved.  But  to  attempt  this  here  would 
bo  to  go  aside  from  the  purpose  of  our  present  inquiry,  as 
well  as  to  repeat  a  labor  already  well  performed  by  others. 
My  object  now  is  only  to  direct  attention  to  the  uni 
versally  observable  fact  that  men,  finding  themselves  in, 
or  in  possession  of,  a  mental  world,  which  is  at  first  (as  re 
gards  their  own  insight*)  so  largely,  or  exclusively,  subject 
ive,  variable,  phenomenal  (and  so,  to  use  Kant's  metaphor, 
like  a  restless  ocean),  believe  in  a  continent  of  objective, 
stable  Truth,  think  that  they  have  glimpses  of  it,  seek  to 
approach  it  and  set  up  way-marks  (in  their  literature  and 
institutions)  of  their  progress  toward  it,  and  by  their 
notion  (or  knowledge)  of  it  form  their  judgments  as  to 
the  significance  and  value  of  human  life  and  history, 
and  of  the  physical  universe  itself.  And  it  is  through 
the  different  notions  which  the  men,  the  thinkers,  of  an 
epoch,  a  race,  a  clime,  a  great  nation,  form  and  express 
concerning  the  geography  of  this  continent,  through  the 
spiritual  colors  of  which  they  profess  to  have  caught 
glimpses,  the  maxims  of  hope,  of  conviction,  or  of  despair, 


MORRIS]  THE  CONDITIONS  OF  ENGLISH  THOUGHT.       259 

sorrowful,  reckless,  or  even  blasphemous,  which  they  have 
inscribed  upon  the  guide-posts  set  up  by  them, — it  is 
through  all  these,  and  through  other  signs  flowing  from, 
or  otherwise  necessarily  connected  with,  these,  that  the 
peculiar  complexion,  the  special  attitude  or  tendency,  of 
the  thought  of  a  particular  epoch  or  nation  is  known  and 
judged.  .  .  . 

I  say,  then,  that  the  question  as  to  the  peculiar  complex- 
tiou.  or  tendency  of  a  nation's  thought  is  a  question  as  to 
the  peculiar  stripe  of  its  idealism.  A  materialistic  habit 
of  thought  is  not  native  to  the  human  or  to  any  other 
full-grown  mind,  for  mind  is  simply  deceived  when  it 
thinks  it  sees  and  understands  in  or  concerning  matter 
anything  but  the  reflection  (however  dim)  of  its  own  per 
fections.  Further,  a  nation's,  like  an  individual's,  thought 
is  judged  by  the  conceptions  current  in  it  concerning  the 
world,  life,  and  man.  "Without  the  interest,  perennial,  in 
exhaustible,  which  attaches  to  such  conceptions,  imagina 
tion  itself  would  lose  its  glow,  and  the  subtler  hues  of 
thought  and  feeling  would  become  fitful,  fatuous,  unmean 
ing,  or  rather  would  sink  into  a  dull  and  leaden  monotone 
of  lifeless  color.  Nor  does  it  make  matters  any  clearer — 
the  rather  it  confuses  them — to  disguise,  or  seek  to  dis 
guise,  the  fact  that  the  questions  which  revolve  about 
these  conceptions  are  strictly  philosophical  ones,  and  that 
every  characteristically  spiritual  activity  of  man,  in  ita 
products  in  literature,  art,  polity,  social  organism,  civiliza 
tion,  strictly  imply,  and  in  their  measure  exhibit,  a  phi 
losophy  of  human  life  and  of  the  whole  universe  of  human 
thought  or  knowledge.  At  the  same  time  I  scarcely  need 
to  say  that  the  individual  men,  or  even  nations,  in  whose 
thought  and  works  the  foregoing  truths  are  illustrated, 
may  have  no  definite  consciousness  of  the  fact  that  they 
are  virtually  philosophizing.  They  may  even  feel  and 


260  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [Mounts 

profess  a  decided  repugnance  to  philosophical  speculation, 
strictly  and  technically  so  called. 

Precisely  this  is  the  case  with  the  English  mind,  whose 
first  and  most  prominent  characteristic  may  perhaps  be 
described  as  consisting  in  this,  namely,  that  its  interest  is 
far  more  concentrated  upon  the  vital  and  practical  side  of 
truth  than  upon  the  abstract  or  theoretical  side.  Truth, 
in  its  living,  effective  power,  so  absorbs  its  attention  that 
little  care  is  left  for  inquiries  concerning  its  ultimate  grounds 
and  guarantees,  or  for  laborious  exactness  in  the  statement 
of  it.  Possession  is  nine-tenths  of  the  law.  The  English 
nation  possess  genuine-  character.  Character  is  vitalized 
truth.  In  their  national  character  the  English  possess  a 
body  of  such  truth,  in  the  power  and  through  the  inspira 
tion  of  which  they  have  been  enabled  to  work  out  (during 
a  period  of  twelve  hundred  years)  an  historical  destiny 
of  the  most  honorable  and  glorious  kind.  Faith  in  this 
truth  is  faith  in  themselves.  To  relinquish  it  would  be 
moral  suicide ;  to  doubt  of  it,  moral  treason.  Its  warrant 
is  found  in  its  historic  power,  in  its  present  vitality.  This 
truth  the  English  possess,  or  perhaps  it  were  truer  to  say 
that  it  possesses  them  ;  and  possession,  I  repeat,  is  nine- 
tenths  of  the  law.  Under  these  circumstances,  inquiry 
concerning  the  remaining  one-tenth,  the  validity  of  title 
by  which  possession  is  held,  may  naturally  appear  to  a 
"  practical  people"  idle,  and  almost  frivolous. 

The  only  other  nation  known  to  Occidental  history 
which  has  possessed  anything  like  so  palpable  and  con 
sistent  a  character  as  the  English,  namely,  the  Eomans, 
in  like  manner,  and  even  in  a  more  marked  degree,  were 
remarkable  for  their  almost  absolute  neglect  of  abstract 
speculation.  Their  old-fashioned  reverence  for  law  and 
duty,  and  their  self-respect,  were  ideal  forces  which 
in  them  and  through  thqm  and  fitted  them  for 


MORRIS]  THE  CONDITIONS  OF  ENGLISH  THOUGHT.       261 

the  rough  and  solid  work  of  world-subjugation.  No 
wonder  that  they  felt  a  greater  interest  in  the  practical 
solution  of  living,  flesh-and-blood  problems,  which  the 
progress  of  events  forced  upon  them,  than  in  their  theo 
retical  explanation.  If  the  ideal,  which  is  the  only  essen 
tial,  side  of  human  nature  has  a  really  sustaining  support 
and  source  of  constant  nourishment  in  a  sterling  national 
character,  it  is  by  no  means  an  obviously  superficial  ques 
tion  to  ask  why  human  nature  should  bother  itself  con 
tinually  about  such  subtilties  as  the  ultimate  constitution 
and  ground  of  existence,  the  abstract  conditions  and  laws 
of  perfect  humanity,  the  sources  of  moral  obligation,  the 
meaning  of  beauty's  charms,  the  intrinsic  value  .of  human 
life.  Certainly,  to  err  through  neglect  of  such  matters 
'for  such  a  reason — and  not,  for  example,  like  the  Span 
iards  of  the  last  two  centuries,  by  reason  of  mental  indo 
lence  and  effeminacy — is  a  noble  error.  .... 

If  the  record  of  the  English,  namely,  in  the  history  of 
philosophy  proper  is  not  a  shining  one,  if  indeed  they 
have  no  properly  national  philosophy  at  all  which  can  be 
called  either  deeply  ,and  thoroughly  or  even  brilliantly 
reasoned,  yet  they  have  solid  endowments,  which  have 
been  influential,  and  in  some  directions  splendid,  in  their 
past  fruit,  and  which  are  quite  sufficient  to  justify  sub 
stantial  hopeful  expectations  for  the  future.  The  strong 
or  marked  sides  of  the  English  mind  are  three, — -the  re 
ligious,  the  scientific,  and  the  poetic.  Religion  and  sci 
ence,  in  different  ways,  furnish  problems  to  philosophy. 
The  poetic  faculty,  the  power  of  creative  imagination,  is 
the  pledge  of  speculative  ability. 

On  the  religious  side  the  English  share  with  their  Teu 
tonic  ancestors  and  neighbors  in  a  certain  depth  and  sin 
cerity  of  spirit,  which  is  opposed  to  all  sham,  is  never 
long  satisfied  with  mere  appearance,  admits  no  separation 


262  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [MORRIS 

of  substance  from  form,  and  demands,  along  with  a  formal 
assent  to  the  doctrines  proposed  to  faith,  an  inward  ex 
perience  of  the  power  of  truth,  accompanied  by  appro 
priate  works.  In  other  words,  the  English  are  genuinely 
religious.  This  appears  throughout  their  whole  history. 
The  tone  of  aspiration,  of  adoration,  of  deep,  sometimes 
fierce,  religious  earnestness,  which  is  struck  in  what  Mr. 
Stopford  Brooke  terms  "  the  first  true  English  poem,"  the 
poem  of  Caedmon,  reappears  in  all  the  critical  epochs  of 
the  development  of  English  life,  and  has  thoroughly  per 
meated  English  manners  and  literature.  The  key-note  of 
the  Reformation  was  struck  in  England  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  and  no  nation  has  been  more  tenacious  in  main 
taining  its  fruits  than  the  English.  But,  it  need  not  bo 
said,  a  genuine  religious  spirit  is  necessarily  idealistic.  It 
carries  with  it  the  habit  of  referring  actions  to  moral 
standards  of  judgment,  of  seeing  in  events  a  providential 
agency,  of  regarding  the  universe  as  an  outcome  of  the  di 
vine  will  and  in  some  sense  a  constant  manifestation  of  di 
vine  reason.  Only,  in  the  matter  of  religion,  the  intensely 
practical  attitude  of  the  English,  their  sense,  perhaps,  of 
the  substance  of  religion  as  a  vital  element  absolutely  es 
sential  to  individual  and  national  life,  and  as  something 
already  safely  in  their  grasp,  in  their  possession,  seems  to 
me  to  render  them  impatient  of  inquiries  relative  to  the 
ultimate  warrant  of  faith.  The  immediate,  practical  war 
rant  of  religious  faith  may  indeed  be  found  in  vital  expe 
rience  and  in  historic  power.  Such  a  faith  is  not  to  bo 
stigmatized  as  absolutely  blind  and  unreasonable.  Yet  it 
is  far  short  of  insight.  It  is  not  faith  resting  on  and  illu 
minated  by  intelligence.  If  reasonable,  it  is  not  wholly 
rational.  It  implies  a  childhood  in  understanding,  against 
which  the  Apostle  of  Christianity  to  the  Gentiles  utters 
an  express  warning.  A  conseouence  of  the  religious  at- 


MORRIS]  THE  CONDITIONS  OF  ENGLISH  THOUGHT.       263 

titude  of  the  English  mind  to  which  I  am  now  referring  is, 
or  has  often  been,  a  disposition  to  cut  short  inquiry  and 
to  cleave  knots  of  difficulty  with  the  oracular  utterance, 
"  Thus  it  is  written," — forgetting  that,  legitimate  as  this 
course  may  be  under  given  circumstances,  it  cannot  al 
ways  be  pursued  without  inducing  a  fatal  bondage  to  the 
letter,  "which  killeth,"  in  distinction  from  the  spirit, 
which,  illuminating  and  giving  sight,  also  "giveth  life." 
This  is,  in  its  measure,  precisely  such  a  substitution  of 
mechanism  for  intelligence  and  life  as,  in  other  fields  of 
exploration,  English  science-philosophy  has  sought  to  ef 
fectuate.  Another  and  a  related  consequence  of  the  same 
mental  attitude  has  been  a  disposition  to  restrict  the 
sphere  of  human  reason  by  emphasizing  the  existence  of  a 
sphere  of  mysterious  and  essentially  unintelligible  truth, 
somehow  made  known  to  man  in  terms,  but  for  the  rest 
only  to  be  unquestioningly  received  by  him  as  an  uncon 
ditional  prerequisite  for  the  restoration  and  preservation 
of  his  soul's  health.  .  .  . 

On  the  whole,  both  in  religion  and  in  science,  I  think 
we  may  say  with  obvious  truth  that  the  characteristic 
disposition  of  the  English  mind  is  to  lay  hold  upon  al 
leged  revealed  or  natural  laws  of  fact,  in  their  immediate, 
practical  relation  to  the  life  and  interests  of  men,  and  as 
narrowly  observable  in  detail  with  the  microscopic  vision 
of  sense.  With  this  goes  a  tendency  to  neglect  that  more 
comprehensive  and  penetrative  mental  labor  which  traces 
the  rational  connection  of  all  law  with  its  birthplace  in 
the  mind  and  will  of  an  Absolute  Spirit.  Eeligion  and 
Science  (by  which  latter  I  understand  all  results  of  the 
application  of  the  mathematico-mechanical  method,  or  all 
systematic  knowledge  of  phenomena)  occupy,  on  the  whole, 
exclusively  the  theoretical  interests  of  the  English  mind. 
Philosophy  (stigmatized  often  as  metaphysical  jargoii")  i» 


264  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [MORRIS 

their  common  waste-basket.  (I  shall  have  more  fitting 
occasion  hereafter  to  examine  and  characterize  more  in 
detail  the  scientific  attitude  of  the  English  mind.) 

This,  however,  is  only  one,  and  that  the  least  inspiring, 
half  of  our  picture.  Along  with  and  in  spite  of  this — to 
a  philosophic  mind — exasperating  self-limitation  and  self- 
obfuscation  of  the  English  upon  those  lines  of  theoretical 
inquiry  which  would  lead  directly  to  philosophy,  we  find 
that  this  nation  possesses,  in  the  language  of  a  German 
historian,  "  a  pre-eminent  gift  for  poetry,  perhaps  the 
most  perfect  that  has  ever  fallen  to  the  lot  of  any  people." 
And  this  poetic  gift  is  not  a  mere  talent,  it  is  real  genius. 
It  is  not  satisfied  with  pleasing  outward  forms  and  tones 
alone.  It  is  all-penetrating.  It  ranges  over  the  whole 
scale  of  the  heart's  emotions.  It  does  not  shrink  back 
from  any  flights  of  intellect.  For  it  nature  is  peaceful 
and  gay,  or  wild  and  darkly  significant.  With  it  human 
life  is  an  idyl,  or  more  frequently  a  drama,  in  which  in 
visible  powers  are  the  actors.  Human  life  is  a  theatre  of 
actions  heroic,  comical,  or  tragic,  or  the  portal  to  an 

"  Undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns," 

and  from  which,  it  is  fully  recognized,  no  just  soul  would 
fain  return.  "  Among  all  the  nations  which  participate  in 
our  modern  civilization,"  says,  further,  the  author  above 
quoted,  "  the  classical  nation  in  poetry  is  the  English." 

Now,  I  have  spoken  above  of  the  poetic  faculty  of  the 
English,  their  power  of  creative  imagination,  as  the  pledge 
of  their  speculative  ability.  And  indeed  the  close  relation 
between  poetic  and  philosophic  endowment  has  long  been 
recognized, — since  Plato's  time,  for  example,  before  whom 
it  had  been  amply  illustrated  in  notable  instances.  The 
difference  between  the  poet  and  the  philosopher  is  one  of 


THE  CULPRIT  FAY.  265 

system  and  of  systematic  intelligence,  rather  than  of  in 
spiration.  The  leading  interpreters,  even  of  scientific 
method,  among  the  English  of  to-day  recognize  the  es 
sential  necessity  of  a  certain  poetic  gift,  a  "  scientific  im 
agination,"  as  it  is  called,  for  the  purposes  of  scientific 
discovery.  In  the  British  poets,  accordingly,  we  find  the 
best  British  philosophy.  "What  English  moralist,  for  ex 
ample,  is  equal  to  William  Shakespeare,  who  is  not  only 
the  real  historian  of  the  modern  mind  (an  ofiice  which  of 
itself  implies  profound  philosophic  insight),  but  also,  in 
the  language  of  the  title-page  of  a  recent  German  publi 
cation,  " der  Philosoph  der  sittlichen  Weltordnung"  "the 
philosopher  of  the  moral  order  of  the  world"  ?  What 
professed  English  philosopher  has  possessed  so  profound 
an  appreciation  of  the  idealistic  philosophy  of  nature  as 
Wordsworth?  What  religious  philosopher  in  England 
has  approached  the  subtlest  problems  of  religious  thought 
with  more  sympathetic  and  discerning  insight  than  Cole 
ridge?  What  living  English  thinker  has  fathomed  in 
well-reasoned,  systematic  prose  the  dark  questions  of 
theodicy,  and  illuminated  them  more  brilliantly  with  the 
light  of  rational  faith  and  insight,  than  Tennyson?  Not 
to  mention  many  others,  whose  poetic  flights  have  been 
ballasted  with  solid  weights  of  thought. 


THE  CULPRIT  FAY. 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

["  The  Culprit  Fay"  is  the  most  purely  imaginative  poem  in  Ameri 
can  literature,  and  displays  a  depth  of  fancy  that  has  seldom  been  sur 
passed.     It  is  the  principal  work  of  the  author,  the  ugh  his  shorter 
poem  "  To  the  American  Flag"  is  the  one  by  which  he  is  best  known. 
II. — M  23 


266  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [DRAKE 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake  was  born  in  New  York  in  1795,  and  his  first 
literary  work  consisted  of  humorous  and  satirical  verses,  published  in 
the  Evening  Post,  under  the  signature  of  "Croaker."  The  "Cul 
prit  Fay"  is  too  long  to  give  here  in  full,  and  we  extract  some  of  its 
more  prettily-conceived  verses,  as  an  illustration  of  the  whole.  In 
the  opening  verses  the  fays  are  seen  assembling,  in  countless  numbers. 
44  in  the  middle  watch  of  a  summer's  night."] 

THEY  come  from  beds  of  lichen  green, 
They  creep  from  the  mullein's  velvet  screen  ; 
Some  on  the  backs  of  beetles  fly 

From  the  silver  tops  of  moon-touched  trees, 
Where  they  swung  in  their  cobweb  hammocks  high 

And  rocked  about  in  the  evening  breeze ; 
Some  from  the  hum-bird's  downy  nest, — 

They  had  driven  him  out  by  elfin  power, 
And,  pillowed  on  plumes  of  his  rainbow  breast, 

Had  slumbered  there  till  the  charmed  hour; 
Some  had  lain  in  the  scoop  of  the  rock, 

With  glittering  ising-stars  inlaid, 
And  some  had  opened  the  four-o'clock 

And  stole  within  its  purple  shade. 

And  now  they  throng  the  moonlight  glade, 
Above— below — on  every  side, 

Their  little  minim  forms  arrayed 
In  the  tricksy  pomp  of  fairy  pride  I 

[The  purpose  of  the  assembly  is  thus  given :] 

For  an  ouphe  has  broken  his  vestal  vow ; 

He  has  loved  an  earthly  maid, 

And  left  for  her  his  woodland  shade ; 

He  has  lain  upon  her  lip  of  dew, 

And  sunned  him  in  her  eye  of  blue, 

Fanned  her  cheek  with  his  wing  of  air, 

Played  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair, 


DRAKE]  THE  CULPRIT  FAY.  267 

Arid,  nestling  on  her  snowy  breast, 
Forgot  the  lily-king's  behest. 
For  this  the  shadowy  tribes  of  air 

To  the  elfin  court  must  haste  away : — 
And  now  they  stand  expectant  there, 

To  hear  the  doom  of  the  culprit  fay. 

[The  fairy  tribunal  condemns  the  criminal  ouphe  to  perform  the  fol 
io  wing  difficult  labors :] 

"  Thou  shalt  seek  the  beach  of  sand 

"Where  the  water  bounds  the  elfin  land ; 

Thou  shalt  watch  the  oozy  brine 

Till  the  sturgeon  leaps  in  the  bright  moonshine, 

Then  dart  the  glistening  arch  below, 

And  catch  a  drop  from  his  silver  bow. 

The  water-sprites  will  wield  their  arms 

And  dash  around,  with  roar  and  rave, 
And  vain  are  the  woodland  spirits'  charms, 

They  are  the  imps  that  rule  the  wave. 
Yet  trust  thee  in  thy  single  might : 
If  thy  heart  be  pure  and  thy  spirit  right, 
Thou  shalt  win  the  warlock  fight. 

u  If  the  spray -bead  gem  be  won, 

The  stain  of  thy  wing  is  washed  away : 

But  another  errand  must  be  done 
Ere  thy  crime  be  lost  for  aye ; 

Thy  flame- wood  lamp  is  quenched  and  dark, 

Thou  must  re-illume  its  spark. 

Mount  thy  steed  and  spur  him  high 

To  the  heavens'  blue  canopy  ; 

And  when  thou  seest  a  shooting  star, 

Follow  it  fast,  and  follow  it  far : 

The  last  faint  spark  of  its  burning  train 

Shall  light  the  elfin  lamp  again. 


268  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Thou  hast  heard  our  sentence,  fay : 
Hence !  to  the  water-side  away  1" 


[The  fay  plunges  into  the  wave  in  quest  of  the  sturgeon,  but  is  met 
by  a  host  of  the  thorny  and  prickly  inhabitants  of  the  waters.] 

Up  spring  the  spirits  of  the  waves, 

From  the  sea-silk  beds  in  their  coral  caves ; 

With  snail-plate  armor  snatched  in  haste, 

They  speed  their  way  through  the  liquid  waste : 

Some  are  rapidly  borne  along 

On  the  mailed  shrimp  or  the  prickly  prong, 

Some  on  the  blood-red  leeches  glide, 

Some  on  the  stony  star-fish  ride, 

Some  on  the  back  of  the  lancing  squab, 

Some  on  the  sideling  soldier-crab, 

And  some  on  the  jellied  quarl,  that  flings 

At  once  a  thousand  streamy  stings. 

They  cut  the  wave  with  the  living  oar, 

And  hurry  on  to  the  moonlight  shore, 

To  guard  their  realms  and  chase  away 

The  footsteps  of  the  invading  fay. 

[The  activity  of  the  army  of  the  waves  ia  described  with  mucn 
vigor.] 

Fearlessly  he  skims  along; 
His  hope  is  high,  and  his  limbs  are  strong, 
He  spreads  his  arms  like  the  swallow's  wing, 
And  throws  his  feet  with  a  frog-like  fling  j 
His  locks  of  gold  on  the  waters  shine, 

At  his  breast  the  tiny  foam-bees  rise, 
His  back  gleams  bright  above  the  brine, 

And  the  wake-line  foam  behind  him  lies. 


DRAKE]  THE  CULPRIT  FAY.  269 

But  the  water-sprites  are  gathering  near 

To  check  his  course  along  the  tide ; 
Their  warriors  come  in  swift  career 

And  hem  him  round  on  every  side. 
On  his  thigh  the  leech  has  fixed  his  hold, 
The  quarl's  long  arms  are  round  him  rolled, 
The  prickly  prong  has  pierced  his  skin, 
And  the  squab  has  thrown  his  javelin, 
The  gritty  star  has  rubbed  him  raw, 
And  the  crab  has  struck  with  his  giant  claw ; 
He  howls  with  rage,  and  he  shrieks  with  pain, 
He  strikes  around,  but  his  blows  are  vain  j 
Hopeless  is  the  unequal  fight. 
"Fairy !  naught  is  left  but  flight. 

He  turned  him  round,  and  fled  amain 

With  hurry  and  dash  to  the  beach  again ; 

He  twisted  over  from  side  to  side, 

And  laid  his  cheek  to  the  cleaving  tide. 

The  strokes  of  his  plunging  arms  are  fleet, 

And  with  all  his  might  he  flings  his  feet ; 

But  the  water-sprites  are  round  him  still. 

To  cross  his  path  and  work  him  ill,., 

They  bade  the  wave  before  him  rise, 

They  flung  the  sea-fire  in  his  eyes, 

And  they  stunned  his  ears  with  the  scallop-stroke, 

"With  the  porpoise  heave  and  the  drum-fish  croak. 

Oh,  but  a  weary  wight  was  he 

When  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  dog- wood  tree  I 

[Healing  his  wounds  with  fairy  remedies,  he  essays  the  task  again, 
this  time  taking  a  purple  mussel-shell  as  a  boat.  The  "  drop  from  the 
silver  bow"  of  the  darting  sturgeon  is  caught,  and  the  fay  gains  the 
shore  again,  triumphant.  He  now  arms  for  his  second  emprise.  The 
arming  is  beautifully  described  :] 

II.  23* 


270  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [DRAKE 

He  put  his  acorn  helmet  on ; 

It  was  plumed  of  the  silk  of  the  thistle-down. 

The  corslet  plate  that  guarded  his  breast 

Was  once  the  wild  bee's  golden  vest ; 

His  cloak,  of  a  thousand  mingled  dyes, 

Was  formed  of  the  wings  of  butterflies ; 

His  shield  was  the  shell  of  a  lady-bug  queen, 

Studs  of  gold  on  a  ground  of  green ; 

And  the  quivering  lance  which  he  brandished  bright 

Was  the  sting  of  a  wasp  he  had  slain  in  fight. 

Swift  he  bestrode  his  fire-fly  steed ; 

He  bared  his  blade  of  the  bent-grass  blue ; 
He  drove  his  spurs  of  the  cockle-seed, 

And  away  like  a  glance  of  thought  he  flew, 
To  skim  the  heavens,  and  follow  far 
The  fiery  trail  of  the  rocket-star.  .  .  . 

Up  to  the  vaulted  firmament 

His  path  the  fire-fly  courser  bent, 

And  at  every  gallop  on  the  wind 

He  flung  a  glittering  spark  behind : 

He  flies  like  a  feather  in  the  blast 

Till  the  first  light  cloud  in  heaven  is  past.  .  .  • 

Up  to  the  cope  careering  swift, 

In  breathless  motion  fast, 
Fleet  as  the  swallow  cuts  the  drift 

Or  the  sea-roc  rides  the  blast, 
The  sapphire  sheet  of  eve  is  shot, 

The  sphered  moon  is  past, 
The  earth  but  seems  a  tiny  blot 

On  a  sheet  of  azure  cast. 
Oh,  it  was  sweet,  in  the  clear  moonlight, 

To  tread  the  starry  plain  of  even, 


DRAKE]  THE  CULPRIT  FAY.  271 

To  meet  the  thousand  eyes  of  night 

And  feel  the  cooling  breath  of  heaven ! 
But  the  elfin  made  no  stop  or  stay 
Till  he  came  to  the  bank  of  the  milky- way ; 
Then  he  checked  his  courser's  foot, 

And  watched  for  the  glimpse  of  the  planet-shoot. 
#  $  #  $  afc  #  # 

[He  is  successful  in  his  object,  and  on  his  return  the  joyous  sprites 
thus  welcome  him :] 

Ouphe  and  goblin !  imp  and  sprite ! 

Elf  of  eve !  and  starry  fay ! 
Ye  that  love  the  moon's  soft  light, 

Hither — hither  wend  your  way ; 
Twine  ye  in  a  jocund  ring, 

Sing  and  trip  it  merrily, 
Hand  to  hand,  and  wing  to  wing, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

Hail  the  wanderer  again 

With  dance  and  song,  and  lute  and  lyre  j 
Pure  his  wing,  and  strong  his  chain, 

And  doubly  bright  his  fairy  fire. 
Twine  ye  in  an  airy  round, 

Brush  the  dew  and  print  the  lea ; 
Skip  and  gambol,  hop  and  bound, 

Bound  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

The  beetle  guards  our  holy  ground  ; 

He  flies  about  the  haunted  place, 
And  if  mortal  there  be  found 

He  hums  in  his  ears  and  flaps  his  face ; 
The  leaf-harp  sounds  our  roundelay, 

The  owlet's  eyes  our  lanterns  be : 


272  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

Thus  we  sing,  and  dance,  and  play, 
Eound  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 


But  hark  !  from  tower  on  tree-top  high 

The  sentry  elf  his  call  has  made  : 
A  streak  is  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Shapes  of  moonlight  !  flit  and  fade  ! 
The  hill-tops  gleam  in  morning's  spring, 
The  skylark  shakes  his  dappled  wing, 
The  day-glimpse  glimmers  on  the  lawn, 
The  cock  has  crowed,  and  the  fays  are  gone, 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  LANGUAGE. 

W.  D.  WHITNEY. 

[The  science  of  philology,  which  has  elicited  so  many  profound 
and  admirable  treatises  in  recent  times  from  the  scholars  of  Europe, 
has  also  had  ardent  students  in  America,  whose  work  bears  fair  com 
parison  with  that  of  their  European  competitors.  Among  these  Pro 
fessor  Whitney  stands  at  the  head,  his  philological  labors  being  nowhere 
surpassed  Jn  depth,  accuracy,  and  scientific  value.  We  append  a  short 
extract  from  his  "Language  and  the  Study  of  Language,"  mainly 
us  illustrative  of  his  style.  William  Dwight  Whitney  was  born  at 
Northampton,  Massachusetts,  in  1827.  His  diligent  philological  labors 
in  American  and  German  universities  brought  him  the  professorship 
of  Sanskrit  and  comparative  philology  at  Yale  College,  which  he  still 
holds.  He  has  written  several  works  and  many  periodical  articles, 
all  marked  by  learning,  judgment,  and  clear  insight  into  his  subject.] 

WE  may  fairly  claim,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  subject 
has  been  very  greatly  simplified,  stripped  of  no  small  part 
of  its  difficulty  and  mystery,  by  what  has  already  been 
proved  as  to  the  history  of  speech.  Did  we  find  no  traces 


WHITNEY]         THE  ORIGIN  OF  LANGUAGE.  273 

of  a  primitive  condition  of  language  different  from  its 
later  manifestations, — did  it  appear  to  us  as  from  the  very 
beginning  a  completely-developed  apparatus,  of  compli 
cated  structure,  with  distinct  signs  for  objects,  qualities, 
activities,  and  abstract  conceptions,  with  its  mechanism 
for  the  due  expression  of  relations,  and  with  a  rich  vocab 
ulary, — then  might  we  well  shrink  back  in  despair  from 
the  attempt  to  explain  its  origin,  and  confess  that  only  a 
miracle  could  have  produced  it,  that  only  a  superhuman 
agency  could  have  placed  it  in  human  possession.  But 
we  have  seen  that  the  final  perfection  of  the  noblest  lan 
guages  has  been  the  result  of  a  slow  and  gradual  devel 
opment,  under  the  impulse  of  tendencies  and  through  the 
instrumentality  of  processes  which  are  even  yet  active  in 
every  living  tongue ;  that  all  this  wealth  has  grown  by 
long  accumulation  out  of  an  original  poverty ;  and  that 
the  actual  germs  of  language  were  a  scanty  list  of  form 
less  roots,  representing  a  few  of  the  most  obvious  sensible 
acts  and  phenomena  appearing  in  ourselves,  our  fellow- 
creatures,  and  the  nature  by  which  we  are  surrounded. 
We  have  now  left  us  only  the  comparatively  easy  task 
of  satisfying  ourselves  how  men  should  have  come  into 
possession  of  these  humble  rudiments  of  speech. 

And  our  attention  must  evidently  first  be  directed  to 
the  inquiry  whether  those  same  inventive  and  shaping 
powers  of  man  which  have  proved  themselves  capable  of 
creating  out  of  monosyllabic  barrenness  the  rich  abun 
dance  of  inflective  speech  were  not  also  equal  to  the  task 
of  producing  the  first  poor  hoard  of  vocables.  There  are 
those  who  insist  much  on  what  they  are  pleased  to  term 
the  divine  origin  of  language ;  who  think  it  in  some  way 
derogatory  to  the  honor  of  the  Creator  to  deny  that  he 
devised  roots,  and  words,  and,  by  some  miraculous  and  ex 
ceptional  agency,  put  them  ready-made  into  the  mouths 


274  PEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [ WHITNEY 

of  the  first  human  beings.  Of  such  we  would  ask  whether, 
after  all,  language  can  be  in  this  sense  only  a  divine  gift 
to  man ;  whether  the  hand  of  the  Creator  is  any  the  less 
clearly  to  be  seen,  and  need  be  any  the  less  devoutly 
acknowledged,  in  its  production,  if  we  regard  man  him 
self  as  having  been  created  with  the  necessary  impulses 
and  the  necessary  capacities  for  forming  language,  and 
then  as  having  possessed  himself  of  it  through  their 
natural  and  conscious  workings.  Language,  articulate 
speech,  is  a  universal  and  exclusive  characteristic  of  man ; 
no  tribe  of  human  kind,  however  low,  ignorant,  and 
brutish,  fails  to  speak ;  no  race  of  the  lower  animals, 
however  highly  endowed,  is  able  to  speak :  clearly,  it  was 
just  as  much  a  part  of  the  Creator's  plan  that  we  should 
talk  as  that  we  should  breathe,  should  walk,  should  eat 
and  drink.  The  only  question  is,  whether  we  began  to 
talk  in  the  same  manner  as  we  began  to  breathe,  as  our 
blood  began  to  circulate,  by  a  process  in  which  our  own 
will  had  no  part ;  or,  as  we  move,  eat.  clothe,  and  shelter 
ourselves,  by  the  conscious  exertion  of  our  natural  powers, 
by  using  our  divinely-given  faculties  for  the  satisfaction 
of  our  divinely-implanted  necessities. 

That  the  latter  supposition  is  fully  sufficient  to  account 
for  our  possession  of  speech  cannot  with  any  show  of 
reason  be  denied.  Throughout  its  whole  traceable  his 
tory,  language  has  been  in  the  hands  of  those  who  have 
spoken  it,  for  manifold  modification,  for  enrichment,  for 
adaptation  to  the  varying  ends  of  a  varying  knowledge 
and  experience ;  nineteenth-twentieths,  at  the  least,  of  the 
speech  we  speak  is  demonstrably  in  this  sense  our  own 
work :  why  should  the  remaining  twentieth  be  thought 
otherwise?  It  is  but  a  childish  philosophy  which  can 
see  no  other  way  to  make  out  a  divine  agency  in  human 
language  than  by  regarding  that  agency  as  specially  and 


WHITNEY]         THE   ORIGIN  OF  LANGUAGE.  275 

miraculously  efficient  in  the  first  stage  of  formation  of 
language.  We  may  fairly  compare  it  with  the  wisdom  of 
the  little  girl  who,  on  being  asked  who  made  her,  replied. 
"  God  made  me  a  little  baby  so  high"  (dropping  her  hand 
to  within  a  foot  of  the  floor),  "  and  I  grew  the  rest."  The 
power  which  originates  is  not  to  be  separated  from  that 
which  maintains  and  develops :  both  are  one,  one  in  their 
essential  nature,  one  in  their  general  mode  of  action.  "We 
might  as  well  claim  that  the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  that 
the  simple  digits,  must  have  been  miraculously  revealed, 
for  elements  out  of  which  men  should  proceed  to  develop 
systems  of  writing  and  of  mathematical  notation,  as  that 
the  rudiments  of  spoken  speech,  the  primitive  signs  of 
mental  conceptions,  must  have  had  such  an  origin. 

In  short,  our  recognition  of  language  as  an  institution, 
as  an  instrumentality,  as  no  integral  system  of  natural 
and  necessary  representatives  of  thought,  inseparable 
from  thought  or  spontaneously  generated  by  the  mind, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  a  body  of  conventional  signs,  de 
riving  their  value  from  the  mutual  understanding  of  one 
man  with  another ;  and,  farther,  our  recognition  of  the 
history  of  this  institution  as  being  not  a  mere  succession 
of  changes  wrought  upon  something  which  still  remains 
the  same  in  essential  character,  but  a  real  development, 
effected  by  human  forces,  whose  operations  we  can  trace 
and  understand, — these  take  away  the  whole  ground  on 
which  the  doctrine  of  the  divine  origin  of  language,  as 
formerly  held,  reposed.  The  origin  of  language  is  divine, 
in  the  same  sense  in  which  man's  nature,  with  all  its  ca 
pacities  and  acquirements,  physical  and  moral,  is  a  divine 
creation ;  it  is  human,  in  that  it  is  brought  about  through 
that  nature,  by  human  instrumentality. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  make  any  farther  reference  to 
an  objection,  already  once  alluded  to,  which  some  minds 


276  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [WniTNKT 

may  be  tempted  to  raise  against  our  whole  construction 
of  the  course  of  linguistic  history  out  of  the  evidences  of 
composition,  phonetic  corruption,  transfer  of  meaning,  and 
the  other  processes  of  linguistic  growth,  which  we  find  in 
all  the  material  of  human  speech.  The  inquiry,  namely, 
has  sometimes  been  raised,  whether  it  was  not  perfectly 
possible  for  the  Creator  to  frame  and  communicate  to 
mortals  a  primitive  language  filled  with  such  apparent 
signs  of  previous  development,  as  well  as  one  which 
should  have  the  aspect  of  a  new  creation.  Of  course, 
must  be  our  reply ;  nothing  is  theoretically  impossible  to 
Omnipotence :  but  to  suppose  that  it  has  pleased  God  to 
work  thus  is  to  make  the  most  violent  and  inadmissible 
of  assumptions,  one  which  imputes  to  him  a  wholly  de 
grading  readiness  to  trifle  with,  even  to  deliberately  mis 
lead  and  deceive,  the  reason  which  he  has  implanted  in 
his  creatures.  It  is  precisely  of  a  piece  with  the  sugges 
tion  once  currently  thrown  out,  when  the  revelations  of 
geology  were  first  beginning  to  be  brought  to  light,  that 
fossils  and  stratifications  and  such  like  facts  proved  noth 
ing;  since  God,  when  he  made  the  rocks,  could  just  as 
well  have  made  them  in  this  form  and  with  these  con 
tents  as  otherwise.  With  men  who  can  seriously  argue 
upon  such  assumptions  it  is  simply  impossible  to  discuss 
a  historical  question :  all  the  influences  of  historical  sci 
ence  are  thrown  away  upon  them ;  they  are  capable  of  be 
lieving  that  a  tree  which  they  have  not  themselves  seen 
spring  up  from  the  seed  was  created  whole  in  the  state  in 
which  they  find  it,  without  gradual  growth ;  or  even  that 
a  house,  a  watch,  a  picture,  were  produced  just  as  they 
are,  by  the  immediate  action  of  almighty  power. 

We  may  here  fittingly  follow  out  a  little  farther  an 
analogy  more  than  once  suggested  in  our  preceding  dis 
cussions,  and  one  which,  though  some  may  deem  it  homely 


WHITNEY]          THE  ORIGIN  OF  LANGUAGE.  277 

and  undignified,  is  genuine  and  truly  illustrative,  and  there 
fore  not  wanting  in  instruction :  it  is  the  analogy  between 
language  and  clothing  and  shelter,  as  alike  results  of 
men's  needs  and  men's  capacities.  Man  was  not  created, 
like  the  inferior  races,  with  a  frame  able  to  bear  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  climate  to  which  he  should  be  subjected; 
nor  yet  with  a  natural  protective  covering  of  hair  or  wool, 
capable  of  adapting  itself  to  the  variety  of  the  seasons : 
every  human  being  is  born  into  the  world  naked  and 
cringing,  needing  protection  against  exposure  and  defence 
from  shame.  Gifted  is  man,  accordingly,  with  all  the 
ingenuity  which  he  requires  in  order  to  provide  for  this 
need,  and  placed  in  the  midst  of  objects  calculated  to 
answer  to  his  requirements,  suitable  materials  for  his 
ingenuity  to  work  upon  ready  to  his  hand.  And  hence  it 
is  hardly  less  distinctively  characteristic  of  man  to  be 
clad  than  to  speak;  nor  is  any  other  animal  so  univer 
sally  housed  as  he.  Clothing  began  with  the  simplest 
natural  productions,  with  leaves  and  bark,  with  skins  of 
wild  animals,  and  the  like ;  as  shelter  with  a  cave,  a  hole 
in  the  ground,  the  hollow  of  a  tree,  a  nest  of  interwoven 
branches.  But  ingenuity  and  taste,  with  methods  per 
fected  and  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation, 
made  themselves,  more  and  more,  ministers  to  higher  and 
less  simple  needs :  the  craving  after  comfort,  ease,  variety, 
grace,  beauty,  sought  satisfaction ;  and  architecture  by 
degrees  became  an  art,  and  dress-making  a  handicraft, 
each  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  auxiliary  arts  and  handi 
crafts,  giving  occupation  to  no  insignificant  part  of  the 
human  race,  calling  into  action  some  of  its  noblest  endow 
ments,  and  bringing  forth  forms  of  elegance  and  beauty, 
— embodiments  of  conceptions,  realizations  of  ideals,  pro 
duced  by  long  ages  of  cultivation,  and  capable  neither  of 
being  conceived  nor  realized  until  after  a  protracted  course 

TT  24 


278  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [WHITNET 

of  training.  So  was  it  also  with  language.  Man  was  not 
created  with  a  mere  gamut  of  instinctive  cries,  nor  yet 
with  a  song  like  the  bird's,  as  the  highest  expression  of 
his  love  and  enjoyment  of  life :  he  had  wants,  and  capaci 
ties  of  indefinite  improvement,  which  could  be  satisfied 
and  developed  only  through  means  of  speech ;  nor  was  he 
treated  by  nature  with  a  disappointing  and  baffling  nig 
gardliness  in  respect  to  them;  he  was  furnished  also  with 
organs  of  speech,  and  the  power  to  apply  their  products 
to  use  in  the  formation  of  language.  His  first  beginnings 
were  rude  and  insufficient,  but  the  consenting  labor  of 
generations  has  perfected  them,  till  human  thought  has 
been  clothed  in  garments  measurably  worthy  of  it,  and 
an  edifice  of  speech  has  been  erected,  grander,  more  beau 
tiful,  and  more  important  to  our  race  than  any  other 
work  whatever  of  its  producing.  There  are  races  yet 
living  whose  scanty  needs  and  inferior  capacities  have 
given  them  inferior  forms  of  speech,  as  there  are  races 
which  have  not  striven  after,  or  been  able  to  contrive, 
any  but  the  rudest  raiment,  the  meanest  shelter.  But  the 
child  now  born  among  us  is  dressed  in  the  products  of 
every  continent  and  every  clime,  and  housed,  it  may  be, 
in  an  edifice  whose  rules  of  construction  have  come  down 
from  Egypt  and  Greece,  through  generations  of  archi 
tects  and  craftsmen  ;  as  he  is  also  taught  to  express  him 
self  in  words  and  forms  far  older  than  the  pyramids,  and 
elaborated  by  a  countless  succession  of  thinkers  and 
speakers. 

This  comparison  might  profitably  be  drawn  out  in  yei 
fuller  detail,  but  I  forbear  to  urge  it  farther,  or  to  call 
attention  to  any  other  of  the  aspects  in  which  it  may 
be  made  to  cast  light  upon  the  development  of  speech. 
Enough  has  been  said,  as  I  hope,  to  make  plain  that  the 
assumption  of  miraculous  intervention,  of  superhuman 


WHITNEY!         THE  ORIGIN  OF  LANGUAGE.  279 

agency,  in  the  first  production  of  speech,  is,  so  far  as 
linguistic  science  is  concerned,  wholly  gratuitous,  called 
for  by  nothing  which  is  brought  to  light  by  our  study  of 
language  and  of  its  relations  to  the  nature  and  history 
of  man. 

It  is  next  of  primary  and  fundamental  importance  that 
we  make  clear  to  ourselves  what  is  the  force  directly 
and  immediately  impelling  to  the  production  of  speech. 
Speech,  wo  know,  is  composed  of  external  audible  signs 
for  internal  acts,  for  conceptions, — for  ideas,  taking  that 
word  in  its  most  general  sense.  But  why  create  such 
signs?  The  doctrine,  now,  is  by  no  means  uncommon, 
that  thought  seeks  expression  by  an  internal  impulse; 
that  it  is  even  driven  to  expression  by  an  inward  neces 
sity  ;  that  it  cannot  be  thought  at  all  without  incorpora 
tion  in  speech ;  that  it  tends  to  utterance  as  the  fully- 
matured  embryo  tends  to  burst  its  envelop  and  to  come 
forth  into  independent  life.  This  doctrine  is,  in  my  view, 
altogether  erroneous :  I  am  unable  to  see  upon  what  it 
is  founded,  if  not  upon  arbitrary  assumption,  combined 
with  a  thorough  misapprehension  of  the  relation  between 
thought  and  its  expression.  It  is  manifestly  opposed  to 
all  the  conclusions  to  which  we  have  been  thus  far  led  by 
our  inquiries  into  the  nature  and  office  of  speech.  Speech 
is  not  a  personal  possession,  but  a  social ;  it  belongs,  not 
to  the  individual,  but  to  the  member  of  society.  No  item 
of  existing  language  is  the  work  of  an  individual;  for 
what  we  may  severally  choose  to  say  is  not  language 
until  it  be  accepted  and  employed  by  our  fellows.  The 
whole  development  of  speech,  though  initiated  by  the 
acts  of  individuals,  is  wrought  out  by  the  community. 
That  is  a  word,  no  matter  what  may  be  its  origin,  its 
length,  its  phonetic  form,  which  is  understood  in  any  com 
munity,  however  limited,  as  the  sign  of  an  idea ;  and  their 


280  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [WHITNEY 

mutual  understanding  is  the  only  tie  which  connects  it 
with  that  idea.  It  is  a  sign  which  each  one  has  acquired 
from  without,  from  the  usage  of  others;  and  each  has 
learned  the  art  of  intimating  by  such  signs  the  internal 
acts  of  his  mind.  Mutual  intelligibility,  we  have  seen,  is 
the  only  quality  which  makes  the  unity  of  a  spoken 
tongue ;  the  necessity  of  mutual  intelligibility  is  the  only 
force  which  keeps  it  one ;  and  the  desire  of  mutual  intel 
ligibility  is  the  impulse  which  called  out  speech.  Man 
speaks,  then,  primarily,  not  in  order  to  think,  but  in 
order  to  impart  his  thought.  His  social  needs,  his  social 
instincts,  force  him  to  expression.  A  solitary  man  would 
never  frame  a  language.  Let  a  child  grow  up  in  utter 
seclusion,  and,  however  rich  and  suggestive  might  be  the 
nature  around  him,  however  full  and  appreciative  his 
sense  of  that  which  lay  without  and  his  consciousness  of 
that  which  went  on  within  him,  he  would  all  his  life  re 
main  a  mute.  On  the  other  hand,  let  two  children  grow 
up  together,  wholly  untaught  to  speak,  and  they  would 
inevitably  devise,  step  by  step,  some  means  of  expression 
for  the  purpose  of  communication  ;  how  rudimentary,  of 
what  slow  growth,  we  cannot  tell, — and,  however  interest 
ing  and  instructive  it  would  be  to  test  the  matter  by  ex 
periment,  humanity  forbids  us  ever  to  hope  or  desire  to 
do  so:  doubtless  the  character  of  the  speech  produced 
would  vary  with  difference  of  capacity,  with  natural  or 
accidental  difference  of  circumstances ;  but  it  is  incon 
ceivable  that  human  beings  should  abide  long  in  each 
other's  society  without  efforts,  and  successful  efforts,  at  in 
telligent  interchange  of  thought.  Again,  let  one  who  had 
grown  up  even  to  manhood  among  his  fellows,  in  full  and 
free  communication  with  them,  be  long  separated  from 
them  and  forced  to  live  in  solitude,  and  he  would  unlearn 
his  native  speech  by  degrees  through  mere  disuse,  and  bo 


WHITNEY]         THE  ORIGIN  OF  LANGUAGE.  281 

found  at  last  unable  to  converse  at  all,  or  otherwise  than 
lamely,  until  he  had  recovered  by  new  practice  his  former 
facility  of  expression.  While  a  Swiss  Family  Robinson 
keep  up  their  language,  and  enrich  it  with  names  for  all 
the  new  and  strange  places  and  products  with  which  their 
novel  circumstances  bring  them  in  contact,  a  Robinson 
Crusoe  almost  loses  his  for  lack  of  a  companion  with 
whom  to  employ  it.  We  need  not,  however,  rely  for  this 
conclusion  upon  imaginary  cases  alone.  It  is  a  well- 
known  fact  that  children  who  are  deprived  of  hearing 
even  at  the  age  of  four  or  five  years,  after  they  have 
learned  to  speak  readily  and  well,  and  who  are  thus  cut 
oif  from  vocal  communication  with  those  around  them, 
usually  forget  all  they  had  learned,  and  become  as  mute 
as  if  they  had  never  acquired  the  power  of  clothing  their 
thoughts  in  words.  The  internal  impulse  to  expression 
is  there,  but  it  is  impotent  to  develop  itself  and  produce 
speech :  exclusion  from  the  ordinary  intercourse  of  man 
with  man  not  only  thwarts  its  progress,  but  renders  it 
unable  to  maintain  itself  upon  the  stage  at  which  it  had 
already  arrived. 

Language,  then,  is  the  spoken  means  whereby  thought 
is  communicated ;  and  it  is  only  that.  Language  is  not 
thought,  nor  is  thought  language;  nor  is  there  a  mys 
terious  and  indissoluble  connection  between  the  two,  as 
there  is  between  soul  and  body,  so  that  the  one  cannot 
exist  and  manifest  itself  without  the  other.  There  can 
hardly  be  a  greater  and  more  pernicious  error,  in  linguis 
tics  or  in  metaphysics,  than  the  doctrine  that  language 
and  thought  are  identical.  It  is,  unfortunately,  an  error 
often  committed,  both  by  linguists  and  by  metaphysicians. 
"  Man  speaks  because  he  -thinks,"  is  the  dictum  out  of 
which  more  than  one  scholar  has  proceeded  to  develop  his 
system  of  linguistic  philosophy.  The  assertion,  indeed,  is 
ii.  24* 


282  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [WHITNBY 

not  only  true,  but  a  truism ;  no  one  can  presume  to  claim 
that  man  would  speak  if  lie  did  not  think ;  but  no  fair 
logical  process  can  derive  any  momentous  conclusions  from 
so  loose  a  premise.  So  man  would  not  wear  clothes  if  he 
had  not  a  body ;  he  would  not  build  spinning  mules  and 
jennies  if  cotton  did  not  grow  on  bushes,  or  wool  on  sheep's 
backs :  yet  the  body  is  more  than  raiment,  nor  do  cotton- 
bushes  and  sheep  necessitate  wheels  and  water-power. 
The  body  would  be  neither  comfortable  nor  comely,  if 
not  clad ;  cotton  and  wool  would  be  of  little  use,  but  for 
machinery  making  quick  and  cheap  their  conversion  into 
cloth;  and,  in  a  truly  analogous  way,  thought  would  be 
awkward,  feeble,  and  indistinct,  without  the  dress,  the 
apparatus,  which  is  afforded  it  in  language.  Our  denial 
of  the  identity  of  thought  with  its  expression  does  not 
compel  us  to  abate  one  jot  or  tittle  of  the  exceeding  value 
of  speech  to  thought :  it  only  puts  that  value  upon  its 
proper  basis. 

That  thought  and  speech  are  not  the  same  is  a  direct 
and  necessary  inference,  I  believe,  from  more  than  one  of 
the  truths  respecting  language  which  our  discussions  have 
already  established ;  but  the  high  importance  attaching  to 
a  right  understanding  of  the  point  will  justify  us  in  a  brief 
review  of  those  truths  in  their  application  to  it.  In  the 
first  place,  we  have  often  had  our  attention  directed  to  the 
imperfection  of  language  as  a  full  representation  of  thought. 
Words  and  phrases  are  but  the  skeleton  of  expression, 
hints  of  meaning,  light  touches  of  a  skilful  sketch er's  pen 
cil,  to  which  the  appreciative  sense  and  sympathetic  mind 
must  supply  the  filling  up  and  coloring.  Our  own  mental 
acts  and  states  we  can  review  in  our  consciousness  in  mi 
nute  detail,  but  we  can  never  perfectly  disclose  them  to 
another  by  speech  ;  nor  will  words  alone,  with  whatever 
sincerity  and  candor  they  may  be  uttered,  put  us  in  pos- 


WHITNEY]         THE  ORIGIN  OF  LANGUAGE.  283 

session  of  another's  consciousness.  In  anything  but  the 
most  objective  scientific  description,  or  the  dryest  reason 
ing  on  subjects  the  most  plain  and  obvious,  we  want  more 
or  less  knowledge  of  the  individuality  of  the  speaker  or 
writer,  ere  we  can  understand  him  intimately,  his  style 
of  thought  and  sentiment  must  be  gathered  from  the  to 
tality  of  our  intercourse  with  him,  to  make  us  sure  that 
we  penetrate  to  the  central  meaning  of  any  word  he  utters; 
and  such  study  may  enable  us  to  find  deeper  and  deeper 
significance  in  expressions  that  once  seemed  trivial  or 
commonplace.  A  look  or  tone  often  sheds  more  light  upon 
character  or  intent  than  a  flood  of  words  could  do.  Humor, 
banter,  irony,  are  illustrations  of  what  tone,  or  style,  or 
perceived  incongruity  can  accomplish  in  the  way  of  im 
pressing  upon  words  a  different  meaning  from  that  which 
they  of  themselves  would  wear.  That  language  is  impo 
tent  to  express  our  feelings,  though  often,  perhaps,  pleaded 
as  a  form  merely,  is  also  a  frequent  genuine  experience ; 
nor  is  it  for  our  feelings  alone  that  the  ordinary  conven 
tional  phrases,  weakened  in  their  force  by  insincere  and 
hyperbolical  use,  are  found  insufficient :  apprehensions, 
distinctions,  opinions,  of  every  kind,  elude  our  efforts  at 
description,  definition,  intimation.  How  often  must  we 
labor,  by  painful  circumlocution,  by  gradual  approach  and 
limitation,  to  place  before  the  minds  of  others  a  concep 
tion  which  is  clearly  present  to  our  own  consciousness ! 
How  often,  when  we  have  the  expression  nearly  complete, 
we  miss  a  single  word  that  we  need,  and  must  search  for 
it,  in  our  memories  or  our  dictionaries,  perhaps  not  finding 
it  in  either!  How  different  is  the  capacity  of  ready  and 
distinct  expression  in  men  whose  power  of  thought  is  not 
unlike !  he  whose  grasp  of  mind  is  the  greatest,  whose  re 
view  of  the  circumstances  that  should  lead  to  a  judgment 
is  most  comprehensive  and  thorough,  whose  skill  of  in- 


284  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOWELLS 

ferenee  is  most  unerring,  may  be,  much  more  than  anothei 
of  far  weaker  gifts,  awkward  and  clumsy  of  speech.  Ho\v 
often  we  understand  what  one  says  better  than  he  himself 
says  it,  and  correct  his  expression,  to  his  own  gratification 
and  acceptance!  And  if  all  the  resources  of  expression 
are  not  equally  at  the  command  of  all  men  of  equal  men 
tal  force  and  training,  so  neither  are  they,  at  their  best, 
adequate  to  the  wealth  of  conception  of  him  who  wields 
them :  that  would  be  but  a  poorly-stored  and  infertile 
mind  which  did  not  sometimes  feel  the  limited  capacity 
of  language  and  long  for  fuller  means  of  expression. 


A  DECLARATION  OF  LOVE. 

W.   D.  HOWELLS. 

[To  understand  the  following  scene,  which  we  extract  from  "  Th« 
Rise  of  Silas  Lapham,"  one  of  the  most  characteristic  of  Howells's 
novels,  some  preliminary  remarks  are  needed.  Silas  Lapham,  a  rich, 
honest,  but  unrefined  paint-manufacturer,  is  desirous  of  gaining  an  en 
trance  for  himself,  his  wife,  and  his  two  daughters  into  the  aristocratic 
circles  of  Boston  society.  Mainly  for  this  purpose  he  takes  into  his 
employment  a  youthful  member  of  the  bluest  blood  of  Boston,  with 
whom  both  the  daughters  at  once  fall  in  love,  though  one  of  them 
closely  conceals  this  fact.  The  other,  the  beauty  of  the  family,  makes 
no  secret  of  her  feelings,  and  has  every  reason  to  believe  that  the 
young  man  is  paying  his  addresses  to  her.  But  he  is  really  in  love 
with  the  plain  and  witty  sister,  and  astounds  her  with  a  declaration  of 
his  affection  in  the  scene  which  we  give  below.  Her  strange  behavior 
is  in  anticipation  of  the  awkward  family  complication  which  she  fore 
sees,  and  of  which  her  lover  has  no  prevision.] 

HE  took  the  chair  she  gave  him,  and  looked  across  at 
her,  where  she  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  in  a 
chair  lower  than  his,  with  her  hands  dropped  in  her  lap, 


WILLL'.M   D.   HOWELLS 


HOWELLS]  A  DECLARATION  OF  LOVE.  285 

and  the  back  of  her  head  on  her  shoulders  as  she  looked 
up  at  him.  The  soft-coal  fire  in  the  grate  purred  and 
flickered ;  the  drop-light  cast  a  mellow  radiance  on  her 
face.  She  let  her  eyes  fall,  and  then  lifted  them  for  an 
irrelevant  glance  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel. 

"  Mother  and  Irene  have  gone  to  the  Spanish  Students' 
concert." 

"  Oh,  have  they  ?"  asked  Corey ;  and  he  put  his  hat, 
which  he  had  been  holding  in  his  hand,  on  the  floor  beside 
his  chair. 

She  looked  down  at  it,  for  no  reason,  and  then  looked 
up  at  his  face,  for  no  other,  and  turned  a  little  red.  Corey 
turned  a  little  red  himself.  She  who  had  always  been  so 
easy  with  him  now  became  a  little  constrained. 

'  Do  you  know  how  warm  it  is  out-of-doors  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No ;  is  it  warm  ?     I  haven't  been  out  all  day." 

"  It's  like  a  summer  night." 

She  turned  her  face  towards  the  fire,  and  then  started 
abruptly.  "  Perhaps  it's  too  warm  for  you  here  ?" 

11  Oh,  no  ;  it's  very  comfortable." 

"  I  suppose  it's  the  cold  of  the  last  few  days  that's  still 
in  the  house.  I  was  reading  with  a  shawl  on  when  you 
came." 

"  I  interrupted  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no.  I  had  finished  the  book.  I  was  just  lookiug 
over  it  again." 

"  Do  you  like  to  read  books  over  ?" 

"  Yes ;  books  that  I  like  at  all." 

"  What  was  it  ?"  asked  Corey. 

The  girl  hesitated.  "  It  has  rather  a  sentimental  name. 
Did  you  ever  read  it  ? — '  Tears,  Idle  Tears.' " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  they  were  talking  of  that  last  night  •.  it's  & 
famous  book  with  ladies.  They  break  their  hearts  over 
it.  Did  it  make  you  cry  ?" 


286  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOWJCLU 

"  Oh,  it's  pretty  easy  to  cry  over  a  book."  said  Penel 
ope,  laughing ;  "  and  that  one  is  very  natural  till  you 
come  to  the  main  point.  Then  the  naturalness  of  all  the 
rest  makes  that  seem  natural  too ;  but  I  guess  it's  rather 
forced." 

"  Her  giving  him  up  to  the  other  one  ?" 

"  Yes,  simply  because  she  happened  to  know  that  the 
other  one  had  cared  for  him  first.  Why  should  she  have 
done  it  ?  What  right  had  she  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  suppose  that  the  self-sacrifice " 

"  But  it  wasn't  self-sacrifice, — or  not  self-sacrifice  alone 
She  was  sacrificing  him  too,  and  for  some  one  who  couldn't 
appreciate  him  half  as  much  as  she  could.  I'm  provoked 
with  myself  when  I  think  how  I  cried  over  that  book, — 
for  I  did  cry.  It's  silly — it's  wicked  for  any  one  to  do 
what  that  girl  did.  Why  can't  they  let  people  have  a 
chance  to  behave  reasonably  in  stories  ?" 

"Perhaps  they  couldn't  make  it  so  attractive,"  sug 
gested  Corey,  with  a  smile. 

"  It  would  be  novel,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  girl.  "  But 
BO  it  would  in  real  life,  I  suppose,"  she  added. 

"  I  don't  know.  Why  shouldn't  people  in  love  behave 
sensibly  ?" 

"  That's  a  very  serious  question,"  said  Penelope,  gravely. 
"I  couldn't  answer  it."  And  she  left  him  the  embarrass 
ment  of  supporting  an  inquiry  which  she  had  certainly 
instigated  herself.  She  seemed  to  have  finally  recovered 
her  own  ease  in  doing  this.  "Do  you  admire  our 
autumnal  display,  Mr.  Corey  ?" 

"Your  display?" 

"  The  trees  in  the  square.  '  We  think  it's  quite  equal  to 
an  opening  at  Jordan  &  Marsh's." 

"Ah,  I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  let  me  be  serious  even 
about  your  maples." 


HOWELLS]  A  DECLARATION  OF  LOVE.  287 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  should, — if  you  like  to  be  serious." 

"Don't  you?" 

"Well,  not  about  serious  matters.  That's  the  reason 
that  book  made  me  cry." 

"  You  make  fun  of  everything.  Miss  Irene  was  telling 
me  last  night  about  you." 

"  Then  it's  no  use  for  me  to  deny  it  so  soon.  I  must 
give  Irene  a  talking  to." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  forbid  her  to  talk  about  you !" 

She  had  taken  up  a  fan  from  the  table,  and  held  it,  now 
between  her  face  and  the  fire,  and  now  between  her  face 
and  him.  Her  little  visage,  with  that  arch,  lazy  look  in 
it,  topped  by  its  mass  of  clusky  hair,  and  dwindling  from 
the  full  cheeks  to  the  small  chin,  had  a  Japanese  effect  in 
the  subdued  light,  and  it  had  the  charm  which  comes  to 
any  woman  with  happiness.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  how 
much  of  this  she  perceived  that  he  felt.  They  talked 
about  other  things  awhile,  and  then  she  came  back  to 
what  he  had  said.  She  glanced  at  him  obliquely  round 
her  fan,  and  stopped  moving  it.  "  Does  Irene  talk  about 
me?"  she  asked. 

"  I  think  so, — yes.  Perhaps  it's  only  I  who  talk  about 
you.  You  must  blame  me  if  it's  wrong,"  he  returned. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  say  it  was  wrong,"  she  replied.  "  But  I 
hope  if  you  said  anything  veiy  bad  of  me  you'll  let  me 
know  what  it  was,  so  that  I  can  reform " 

"  No,  don't  change,  please !"  cried  the  young  man. 

Penelope  caught  her  breath,  but  went  on  resolutely, 
" — or  rebuke  you  for  speaking  evil  of  dignities."  She 
looked  down  at  the  fan,  now  flat  in  her  lap,  and  tried  to 
govern  her  hand,  but  it  trembled,  and  she  remained  look 
ing  down.  Again  they  let  the  talk  stray,  and  then  it  was 
he  who  brought  it  back  to  themselves,  as  if  it  had  not 
left  them. 


288  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HowtLLs 

"  I  have  to  talk  of  you,"  said  Corey,  "  because  I  get  to 
talk  to  you  so  seldom." 

"You  mean  that  I  do  all  the  talking  when  we're — 
together?"  She  glanced  sidewise  at  him;  but  she  red 
dened  after  speaking  the  last  word. 

"  We're  so  seldom  together,"  he  pursued. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean " 

"Sometimes  I've  thought — I've  been  afraid — that  you 
avoided  me." 

"  Avoided  you  ?" 

"  Yes !     Tried  not  to  be  alone  with  me." 

She  might  have  told  him  that  there  was  no  reason  why 
she  should  be  alone  with  him,  and  that  it  was  very 
strange  he  should  make  this  complaint  of  her.  But  she 
did  not.  She  kept  looking  down  at  the  fan,  and  then  she 
lifted  her  burning  face  and  looked  at  the  clock  again. 
"Mother  and  Irene  will  be  sorry  to  miss  you,"  she 
gasped. 

He  instantly  rose  and  came  towards  her.  She  rose  too, 
and  mechanically  put  out  her  hand.  He  took  it  as  if  to 
say  good-night.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  send  you  away,"  she 
besought  him. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  going,"  he  answered,  simply.  "  I  wanted 
to  say — to  say  that  it's  I  who  make  her  talk  about  you — 

to  say  I There  is  something  I  want  to  say  to  you ; 

I've  said  it  so  often  to  myself  that  I  feel  as  if  you  must 
know  it."  She  stood  quite  still,  letting  him  keep  her 
hand,  and  questioning  his  face  with  a  bewildered  gaze. 
"You  must  know — she  must  have  told  you — she  must 

have  guessed "  Penelope  turned  white,  but  outwardly 

quelled  the  panic  that  sent  the  blood  to  her  heart.  "  I — 
I  didn't  expect — I  hoped  to  have  seen  your  father — but  I 
must  speak  now,  whatever I  love  you !" 

She  freed  her  hand  from  both  of  those  he  had  closed 


HOWELLS!  A  DECLARATION  OF  LOVE.  289 

upon  it,  and  went  back  from  him  across  the  room  with  a 
sinuous  spring.  "Mel"  Whatever  potential  complicity 
had  lurked  in  her  heart,  his  words  brought  her  only 
immeasurable  dismay. 

He  came  towards  her  again.     "  Yes,  you.     Who  else  ?" 

She  fended  him  off  with  an  imploring  gesture.  "  [ 
thought — I — it  was " 

She  shut  her  lips  tight,  and  stood  looking  at  him  where 
he  remained  in  silent  amaze.  Then  her  words  came  again, 
Bhudderingly.  "  Oh,  what  have  you  done  ?" 

"  Upon  my  soul,"  he  said,  with  a  vague  smile,  "  I  don't 
know.  I  hope  no  harm  ?" 

"  Oh,  don't  laugh !"  she  cried,  laughing  hysterically 
herself.  "  Unless  you  want  me  to  think  you  the  greatest 
wretch  in  the  world !" 

"  I  ?"  he  responded.  "  For  heaven's  sake,  tell  me  what 
you  mean !" 

"  You  know  I  can't  tell  you.  Can  you  say — can  you 
put  your  hand  on  your  heart  and  say  that — you — say  you 
never  meant — that  you  meant  me — all  along  ?" 

"  Yes ! — yes !  Who  else  ?  I  came  here  to  see  youi 
father,  and  to  tell  him  that  I  wished  to  tell  you  this — to 

ask  him But  what  does  it  matter  ?    You  must  have 

known  it — you  must  have  seen — and  it's  for  you  to  answer 
me.  I've  been  abrupt,  I  know,  and  I've  startled  you ;  but, 
if  you  love  me,  you  can  forgive  that  to  my  loving  you  so 
long  before  I  spoke." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  parted  lips. 

"Oh,  mercy!  What  shall  I  do  ?  If  it's  true— what 
you  say — you  must  go  !"  she  said.  "And  you  must  never 
come  any  more.  Do  you  promise  that  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  young  man.  "  Why  should  I 
promise  such  a  thing — so  abominably  wrong?  I  could 

obey  if  you  didn't  love  me " 

ii.— N        t  25 


290  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOWELLS 

"  Oh,  I  don't !     Indeed  I  don't !     Now  will  you  obey  ?" 

"  No.     I  don't  believe  you." 

•'  Oh !" 

He  possessed  himself  of  her  hand  again. 

"  My  love — my  dearest !  What  is  this  trouble,  that  you 
can't  tell  it  ?  It  can't  be  anything  about  yourself.  If  it 
is  anything  about  any  one  else,  it  wouldn't  make  the  least 
difference  in  the  world,  no  matter  what  it  was.  I  would 
be  only  too  glad  to  show  by  any  act  or  deed  I  could  that 
nothing  could  change  me  towards  you." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  understand !" 

"  No,  I  don't.     You  must  tell  me." 

"  I  will  never  do  that." 

"  Then  I  will  stay  here  till  your  mother  comes,  and  ask 
her  what  it  is." 

"  Ask  her  t" 

11  Yes !  Do  you  think  I  will  give  you  up  till  I  know  why 
I  must  ?" 

"  You  force  me  to  it !  Will  you  go  if  I  tell  you,  and 
never  let  any  human  creature  know  what  you  have  said 
to  me?" 

"  Not  unless  you  give  me  leave.' 

"That  will  be  never.  Well,  then "  She  stopped. 

and  made  two  or  three  ineffectual  efforts  to  begin  again. 
"  No,  no  1  I  can't.  You  must  go  !" 

"  I  will  not  go !" 

"  You  said  you — loved  me.     If  you  do,  you  will  go." 

He  dropped  the  hands  he  had  stretched  towards  her, 
and  she  hid  her  face  in  her  own. 

"  There !"  she  said,  turning  it  suddenly  upon  him.  "  Sit 
down  there.  And  will  you  promise  me — on  your  honor — 
not  to  speak — not  to  try  to  persuade  me — not  to — touch 
me  ?  You  won't  touch  me  ?" 

"  I  will  obey  you,  Penelope." 


HOWELLS]      .      A  DECLARATION  OF  LOVE.  291 

"  As  if  you  were  never  to  see  me  again  ?  As  if  I  were 
dying?" 

"  I  will  do  what  you  say.  But  I  shall  see  you  again , 
and  don't  talk  of  dying.  This  is  the  beginning  of  life " 

"No.  It's  the  end,"  said  the  girl,  resuming  at  last 
something  of  the  hoarse  drawl  which  the  tumult  of  her 
feeling  had  broken  into  those  half-articulate  appeals.  She 
sat  down  too,  and  lifted  her  face  towards  him.  "  It's  the 
end  of  life  for  me,  because  I  know  now  that  I  must  have 
been  playing  false  from  the  beginning.  You  don't  know 
what  I  mean,  and  I  can  never  tell  you.  It  isn't  my  secret ; 
it's  some  one  else's.  You — you  must  never  come  here 
again.  I  can't  tell  you  why,  and  you  must  never  try  to 
know.  Do  you  promise  ?" 

"  You  can  forbid  me.     I  must  do  what  you  say." 

"  I  do  forbid  you,  then.  And  you  shall  not  think  I  am 
cruel " 

"  How  could  I  think  that  ?" 

"  Oh,  how  hard  you  make  it !" 

Corey  laughed  for  very  despair.  "  Can  I  make  it  easier 
by  disobeying  you  ?" 

"  I  know  I  am  talking  crazily.     But  I'm  not  crazy." 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  with  some  wild  notion  of  comforting 
her ;  "  but  try  to  tell  me  this  trouble !  There  is  nothing 
under  heaven — no  calamity,  no  sorrow — that  I  wouldn't 
gladly  share  with  you,  or  take  all  upon  myself  if  I 
could !" 

"  I  know !     But  this  you  can't.     Oh,  my " 

"  Dearest !  "Wait !  Think  I  Let  me  ask  your  mother 
— your  father " 

She  gave  a  cry. 

"No!  If  you  do  that,  you  will  make  me  hate  you! 
"Will  you " 

The  rattling  of  a  latch-key  was  heard  in  the  outer  door 


292  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [DARBY 

"  Promise !"  cried  Penelope. 

"  Oh,  I  promise !" 

"Good-by!"  She  suddenly  flung  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  and,  pressing  her  cheek  tight  against  his,  flashed 
out  of  the  room  by  one  door  as  her  father  entered  it  by 
another. 


LIFE  IN  BRUSHLAND. 

JOHN  DARBY. 

["John  Darby"  is  the  nom^de-plume  assumed  by  Dr.  James  E. 
Garretson,  a  physician  of  Philadelphia,  who  has  made  the  charms  and 
advantages  of  country  life  the  basis  of  several  enthusiastic  works. 
"  Brushland,"  as  will  appear  from  our  selection,  is  the  sandy-soiled 
and  forest-covered  region  of  Southern  New  Jersey,  at  first  sight  seeming 
utterly  unfitted  for  agriculture,  yet  which  has  proved  remarkably  pro 
lific  in  the  growth  of  the  vine,  small  fruits,  and  "garden-truck"  in 
general.  It  has  become  a  very  important  source  of  fruit  and  vege 
table  supply  to  the  two  great  neighboring  cities  of  New  York  and 
Philadelphia,  while  German  cultivators  have  succeeded  in  making  parts 
of  it  a  veritable  "  American  Khine."  The  following  description  of  its 
two  main  vine-growing  districts  may  be  of  interest  to  our  readers.] 

IF  the  author  of  the  "Deserted  Village"  be  right  in 
his  assertion  that  "every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its 
man,"  these  Jersey  barrens  are  capable  of  affording  sup 
port  to  all  the  unemployed  of  the  United  States.  Let 
the  rood  be  changed  for  a  twenty-acre  farm,  and  homes 
are  to  be  found  in  them  for  all  the  houseless  in  the  two 
great  cities  bordering  the  region. 

Jersey  brush  is  not  a  home  in  itself:  quite  the  contrary. 
Many  is  the  man  who  has  come  to  grief  amid  its  scrub- 
oaks.  Many  another  will  lay  down  the  budget  of  his 
hopes  among  its  brambles  and  briers,  cursing  the  fate  that 


DARBY]  LIFE  IN  BRUSHLAND.  293 

led  him  to  what  he  is  to  find  a  dreary  disappointment. 
To  flourish  in  Brushland  is  to  carry  into  it  common  sense 
and  energy.  To  starve  in  its  woods  is  not  to  take  into 
them  judgment  and  industry.  The  man  who  would  make 
for  himself  amid  Brushland  cheapness  the  results  of  Jo- 
hannisberg  must  be  sure  that,  in  locating  his  vine-hill,  he 
buys  red  clay  and  gravel.  He  who  would  have  a  vintage 
smacking  of  the  bouquet  that  lives  about  the  Chateau- 
Margaux  must  not  be  uncertain  as  to  the  percentage  of 
potash,  iron,  and  soluble  silicates  to  be  analyzed  from  his 
soil. 

Reminded  of  wine-growing  is  to  recall  many  pleasant 
experiences  enjoyed  with  the  growers.  Egg  Harbor  and 
Vineland  are  the  regions  of  this  most  delightful  industry. 
The  possibility  of  the  whole  brush  country  for  the  profit 
able  raising  of  the  vine,  and  of  fruit  generally,  is  some 
thing  that  home-seekers  might  wisely  consider.  Certainly 
it  is  the  case  that  here  growing  weather  comes  earliest 
and  stays  latest.  Undeniably,  a  seed  dropped  in  the 
ground  is  sure  to  come  to  something  if  the  ghost  of  a 
chance  be  allowed  it.  It  happened  the  writer  on  an 
occasion  to  be  invited  to  meet  in  the  brush  a  commission 
of  gentlemen  appointed  by  the  Legislature  of  New  Jersey 
to  make  explorations  of  a  character  similar  to  some  en 
gaging  at  the  time  his  own  attention.  The  day  of  meeting 
was  a  hot  one,  and  after  a  long  morning  spent  in  digging 
out  specimens  of  soil  and  in  detouring  here  and  there 
through  trackless  places,  a  ride  was  proposed  to  what, 
again  using  Carlyle's  word,  and  adding  to  it,  we  will  call 
"  Weissnichtwozweitens."  Assuredly,  as  one  at  least  of 
the  party  was  concerned,  it  was  a  ride  having  no  objective 
point,  but  influenced  solely  by  the  accidents  of  roads  that 
might  be  met  with.  It  was  certainly  a  narrow  way  in 
which  we  found  ourselves  immediately  on  leaving  the 
ii.  25* 


294  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [DARBT 

street  of  the  village,  so  narrow  as  to  beget  at  once  the 
thought  "  Suppose  we  meet  somebody  ?"  Where  did  the 
road  lead  ?  To  see  the  most  of  the  particular  locality  was 
the  special  object ;  plenty  of  time  was  just  then  at  the 
author's  command.  Where  the  single  track  went  was  not 
a  matter  of  the  slightest  consequence ;  it  led  somewhere, 
that  was  enough. 

What  a  surprise  when  a  sudden  turn  in  the  road  showed 
an  ending  of  the  brush,  introducing  a  scene  fair  as  eye 
could  desire  to  look  on !  Flatness  was  lost  in  undulation ; 
sterility  replaced  by  fruitfulness.  Along  the  sides  of  many 
hills  of  gentle  elevation  were  seen  the  dressers  tying  up 
their  vines.  From  every  direction  came  songs  from  the 
lips  of  the  workers,  borne  by  a  hazy  atmosphere.  The 
scene  was  not  at  all  American.  It  was  an  involuntary 
motion  of  the  eye  that  turned  to  look  for  the  Rheinfluss. 
Vineyards  in  every  direction.  Houses  exhibiting  both 
means  and  taste.  Here,  perched  on  the  top  of  the  highest 
hill,  a  beer-brewery.  One  place,  beautiful  as  a  picture, 
showed  a  garden  filled  with  long  tables;  evidently  a 
pleasure-resort ;  German,  very  German ;  one  on  taking  a 
seat  would  unconsciously  have  given  his  order  in  the 
Sprache  des  Vaterlandes.  But  the  people  to  fill  up  these 
long  tables ;  where  did  the  convivialists  come  from  ?  Who 
could  manage  to  find  so  out-of-the-way  an  Anpflanzungf 

Turning  up  a  lane,  bordered  on  either  side  by  rows  of 
vines,  our  excursion  found  a  terminus  before  what,  at  first 
sight,  might  readily  enough  have  been  mistaken  for  a 
house-roof  lying  upon  the  ground.  This,  however,  was  a 
wine-vault,  the  roof  acting  the  part  of  a  water-shed. 

It  is  not  to  qualify  the  hearty  welcome  given  our  little 
party  by  any  reference  to  the  official  character  associated 
with  it.  The  proprietor  represented  his  vines,  the  vines 
expressed  the  proprietor.  There  was  plenty  of  wine. 


DARBY]  LIFE  IN  BRUSHLAND.  295 

there  were  plenty  of  vintages.     "  Would  we  inspect  the 
vault  ?" 

And  we  did  inspect  the  vault ;  we  inspected  the  wine ; 
and  as  well  we  inspected  the  vintages.  From  sixty-eight 
to  seventy-eight;  ten  glorious  gatherings  poured  into 
casks  from  the  wine-bottles  hung  by  God's  creative  power 
on  the  vines  of  the  hill-side.  It  is  our  misfortune  never 
to  have  been  in  Leipsic,  consequently  we  have  never  sat 
among  the  mould-covered  barrels  where  Faust  sat.  Here, 
however,  was  an  Auerbach's  in  the  woods.  Over  the  bar 
rels  were  inches  of  mould  ;  over  the  walls  were  dark  stains 
made  by  the  flare  of  lamp  and  torch.  The  vault  we  were 
in  is  an  oblong  square,  pillars  of  masonry  supporting  the 
roof  at  short  intervals.  In  entering  it  we  had  passed 
through  a  small  trap  in  the  floor  of  the  roof.  Looking 
up  from  below,  this  floor-roof  impressed  us  as  being  of 
stone.  The  barrels,  of  which  there  was  row  after  row, 
were  piled  one  upon  the  other,  reaching  almost  to  the 
ceiling.  No  attempt  seemed  to  have  been  made  to  keep 
them  free  from  mould,  cask  after  cask  lying  in  a  union 
which  appeared  not  to  have  been  disturbed  for  years. 
What  the  value  of  mould  is  in  a  wine-vault  was  not 
known  to  any  of  the  visiting  inspectors ;  that,  however, 
it  is  a  something  to  be  cherished  and  valued  by  the  vint 
ner  is  a  matter  of  which  our  entertainer  did  not  leave  us 
in  doubt.  In  a  picture  of  this  same  vault,  shown  in  a 
little  book  published  by  the  Camden  &  Atlantic  Railway 
Company,  the  walls  are  painted  white,  and  the  place 
throughout  is  as  light  as  a  mid-day  sun  might  possibly 
make  it ;  in  reality,  it  is  a  cave  full  of  twilight  and  of 
weird  imaginations,  and  so  full,  withal,  of  ghostly  hiding- 
places,  that  were  it  not  that  Goethe  has  so  plainly  and 
irrefutably  exhibited  that  Mephistopheles  differs  nothing 
tn  his  habits  from  a  modern  gentleman,  one  would  incline, 


296  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [DARBT 

when  in  it,  to  keep  his  wits  about  him  out  of  fear  of  tho 
devil. 

"  Sixty-eight,"  said  the  host,  flowing  into  half  a  dozen 
glasses  the  holdings  of  a  self-acting  pump.  Sixty-eight 
was  drunk  and  pronounced  excellent.  "Sixty-nine!" 
Sixty-nine  was  a  welcome  draught.  "  Seventy !"  "  Sev 
enty-one!  Seventy-two!  Seventy -three!"  Seventy- 
three  needed  a  lesson  for  its  appreciation.  "So,"  said  tho 
vintner,  putting  a  teaspoonful  of  the  wine  into  his  mouth 
and  drawing  bubbles  of  air  through  it.  Half  a  dozen 
mouths  received  half  a  dozen  teaspoonsful  and  made  bub 
bles.  This  idea  was  new ;  the  result  carried  the  day ;  the 
declaration  for  the  Franklin  '73  was  unanimous. 

"  Jolhink !"  said  the  vintner,  brimming  the  pump  with 
what  evidently  was  his  peculiar  predilection.  To  see  the 
expression  of  triumph  on  the  face  of  the  grower  was  to 
find  reflected  on  one's  self  the  flame  of  his  enthusiasm. 
Did  he  feel  a  shade  of  disappointment  that  the  Franklin 
'73  held  the  day  ?  One,  at  least,  of  the  tasters  must  ex 
cuse  the  preference,  in  that  he  judged  by  tannates  and 
ferrum  rather  than  by  palate  and  nostril.  Perhaps,  how 
ever,  after  all,  it  was  the  result  of  a  first  experience  at 
bubbl  e-making. 

The  door,  as  stated,  through  which  our  party  had  en 
tered  the  place,  was  a  small  trap  cut  in  the  water-shed. 
Until  after  the  trial  of  the  vintages,  when  we  came  more 
leisurely  to  look  about,  it  had  not  happened  to  any  of  us 
to  inquire  after  a  more  roomy  means  of  egress.  The 
great  tuns  constituting  the  ground-floor  of  vessels  cer 
tainly  had  never  been  brought  through  the  trap,  or  if,  as 
suggested  by  one  of  the  party,  an  incoming  had  been  in 
the  shape  of  staves,  how  was  there  to  be  an  outgoing  in 
the  form  of  hogsheads?  Six  speculating  inquirers  had 
repeated  before  them  the  problem  of  the  English  King : 


DARBY]  LIFE  IN  BRUSHLAND.  297 

here  was  another  dumpling  with  an  apple  inside.  How 
is  an  apple  got  inside  of  a  dumpling  ?  It  was  an  attend 
ant,  who  had  not  partaken  of  the  vintages,  that  somewhat 
later  pointed  out  a  door  in  one  of  the  sides  of  the  vault 
quite  big  enough  to  pass  a  brewer's  distributing- wagon. 

Auerbach's  cellar  had  not  only  Mephistopheles,  but  as 
well  its  poet.  But  not  Leipsic  alone  is  the  home  of 
the  muse.  There,  in  the  very  midst  of  Jersey  brush, 
in  a  gloomy  vault  under  ground,.  Inspiration  was  found 
among  wine-barrels,  and  Eeflection,  arms  akimbo,  sitting 
surrounded  by  mould.  Poetry  is  not  necessarily  rhyme, 
nor  is  philosophy  compulsorily  long-drawn  words.  Who 
had  composed  the  bars  and  who  written  the  lines  which 
the  flare  of  the  torch  showed  on  the  walls  of  a  recess  in 
which  we  found  ourselves?  One  familiar  with  German 
might  not  fail  to  understand  that  the  composition  had 
been  thought  out  in  that  tongue,  and  afterwards  put  into 
a  language  less  familiar  to  the  thinker.  "Whether  it  was 
the  wine  that  had  been  drank,  the  rich,  full,  adagio-timed 
voice  of  our  host,  or  whether  the  vein  of  philosophy 
struck  a  responsive  chord,  it  matters  not  to  consider. 
Never  was  song  or  chant  greeted  more  rapturously ;  never 
certainly  has  that  fungus-lined  old  cellar  echoed  with 
heartier  encore. 

The  writer  would  like  to  put  back  into  their  native 
tongue  the  words  chanted  in  the  wine-vault.  He  would 
like  to  telephone  into  the  ear  of  the  reader  the  rich  sturdi- 
ness  of  the  voice  that  sang.  He  would  like  to  mellow  a 
critic's  heart  with  draughts  of  the  Franklin  '73.  More 
even  than  this :  he  would  like  that  his  reader  might  enjoy 
with  him  the  associations  that  are,  even  at  this  moment, 
about  him,  of  Weissnichtwozweitens.  Divested  of  the 
frame  of  its  charms,  here  follows  what  the  wine-grower 
sang  to  his  guests  ; 


298  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [DARBY 

"  Here  among  my  wine-barrels  will  I  reflect  on  the  meaning  of  evils 
escaped  by  me ;  evils  which  lie  in  wait  for  dwellers  in  great  cities. 

"  Here,  where  it  is  never  too  hot  or  too  cold,  will  I  rest  in  thankful 
ness  of  my  good ;  good  which  is  the  heritage  of  him  who  eschews  bad. 

"  Here,  distraction  far  removed  from  me,  will  I  pause  in  my  work 
to  consider  of  wine  ;  wine,  which  while  it  cheers  and  lifts  up,  as  well 
scourges  and  pulls  down. 

"  Here,  beneath  the  face  of  the  ground,  will  I  consider  of  running 
streams ;  streams  which  the  God  gives  me  in  form  of  wine  for  my 
barrels. 

"  I  will  account  that  I  am  not  the  maker  but  the  gatherer  of  in 
spired  water;  water  wherein  is  yearly  repeated  the  miracle  of  the 
marriage-feast. 

"  I  will  take  to  my  heart  consciousness  that  the  God  can  do  no  evil ; 
evil  I  will  teach  myself  to  understand  as  the  abuse  of  good. 

"  I  will  join  in  no  foolish  hue  and  cry  against  the  meaning  of  wine ; 
wine,  when  vilified,  is  as  slops  thrown  in  the  face  of  its  maker. 

"  Leipsic  I  will  not  regret ;  my  vineyard  shall  be  my  Leipsic : 
Leipsic  where  if  there  be  no  Faust  there  is  no  Mephistopheles. 

"  World  1  world  1  What  is  a  man's  world  but  his  mind?  Mind, 
which  in  its  wisdom  or  folly  makes  or  unmakes. 

"  Toast !  I  hold  high  the  brimming  beaker  for  a  toast  to  the  God : 
God  who  beautifies,  but  who  denies  not  to  man  the  power  to  desolate." 

Experiences  quite  as  strange  as  those  of  the  city  are  met 
with  in  the  brush.  Among  those  same  vineyards  of  the 
Egg  Harbor  region  the  writer  stopped  on  one  occasion  to 
ask  for  a  draught  of  water,  when  a  plainly-dressed  dame 
presented  the  pitcher,  who  was  found  familiar  with  all 
the  modern  languages  of  Southern  Europe,  and  who,  in 
her  day,  had  called  down  the  plaudits  of  so  critical  an 
audience  as  assembles  in  the  Grand  Opera-House  at  Milan. 
From  Italy  to  the  Jersey  barrens  is  a  long  distance,  but 
the  lady  seemed  to  have  no  regret  for  the  change.  It  was 
a  generous  and  delicious  refreshment,  not  of  water,  but 


DABBY]  LIFE  IN  BRUSHLAND.  299 

of  wine,  that  was  given  by  the  retired  prima  donna,  and 
it  was  bestowed  with  a  grace  not  unbecoming  a  queen  of 
song.  An  interview  with  the  lady's  husband  showed  a 
spouse  not  unworthy  so  accomplished  a  wife.  There  was 
limping  and  halting  among  the  Latin  and  German  verbs 
with  which  we  endeavored  to  make  ourselves  understood, 
the  one  by  the  other ;  the  lameness  was  not,  however,  on 
the  part  of  the  farmer. 

But  to  find  the  odd  things  and  oddities  of  the  barrens 
go  to  Vineland.  Miss  Duhring,  in  her  charming  book, 
"  Philosophers  and  Fools,"  classifies  the  articles.  At 
Vineland  she  would  be  at  fault.  I  am  not  at  all  prepared 
to  commit  myself  as  to  the  residents.  I  think  them  phi 
losophers  ;  people  generally  do  not  agree  with  me.  At 
Vineland  are  found  the  men  who  grow  long  hair,  and  the 
women  who  cut  it  short ;  males  who  wear  petticoats,  and 
females  who  have  made  the  exchange  for  trousers.  There 
is,  about  the  locality,  a  monstrous  amount  of  sense — or 
nonsense.  One  paying  his  fare  in  the  cars  can  go  and  see, 
deciding  for  himself. 

Searching  for  entertainment,  I  had  over  and  again  been 
in  Vineland.  To  this  day  no  one  there  knows  my  name. 
I  stop  and  gossip  with  the  specimen  who  has  woman's 
rights  at  her  tongue's  end.  She  is  a  Yankee,  you  may  be 
sure ;  she  "  wants  to  know,"  she  pronounces  how  "  heow." 
She  sniffs  the  air  of  the  clouds  when  I  inadvertently  drop 
a  word  about  the  lord  of  creation.  Dr.  So-and-So,  name 
unknown,  not  he,  but  a  she,  going  by  upon  a  wall-eyed 
horse, — never  mind  the  position, — stops  to  learn  the  row ; 
the  row  is  all  on  one  side.  I  put  the  women  by  the  ears 
and  draw  off  to  a  neighboring  lot  where  Jonathan  is 
framing  a  good-sized  dry-goods-box  kind  of  structure, 
designed  to  accommodate  a  front  door  and  a  pair  of  green- 
painted  window-shutters. 


300  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

I  have  had  many  a  good  talk  with  Jonathan,  and  hav« 
learned  many  valuable  facts  from  him.  He  knows  every 
thing.  You  can  tell  him  nothing.  Unfortunately,  he 
knows  too  much.  He  sets  up  his  packing-box  too  often 
upon  the  sand,  mistaking  it  for  rock.  His  sanguinity  is 
refreshing.  Although  his  ten-acre  lot  is  only  a  brush- 
heap,  next  year  he  is  to  dig  dollars  out  of  it.  You  need 
not  suggest  a  market  for  this,  or  sale  for  that ;  what  he  is 
after  is  strawberries.  He  expects  to  show  after  a  "  spell" 
a  "  tarnal  site"  better  specimen  of  the  fruit  than  Middle 
States  people  ever  read  about  or  "  beared  tell  on."  "  He'll 
do  it ;  by  the  eternal  Jehoshaphat  he  will." 

A  curious  place,  truly.  I  am  in  earnest  when  I  suggest 
that  the  people  may  be  philosophers.  Assuredly  it  would 
not  be  easy  to  find  a  region  where  so  much  is  got  out  of 
so  little.  The  settlement  is  a  plain  counting  thousands 
of  acres.  Where  drains  are  required  you  find  ditches. 
Where  fences  are  ordinarily  used  law  is  made  to  take 
their  place.  Yines  and  trees  skirt  the  road-side.  Fruit 
hangs  over  your  head  as  you  pass  along.  Nobody  steals. 

The  crates  of  berries  sent  by  this  community  to  the 
markets  of  the  two  great  equidistant  cities  of  Philadelphia 
and  New  York  are  fully  fabulous  as  to  number ;  tons  is 
what  the  people  count  their  produce  by.  Besides  raising 
the  berries  they  make  the  boxes.  Go  to  Yineland  to  learn 
economy.  A  shaving  from  a  hoop-pole  is  made  to  sur 
round  a  quart  of  fruit.  A  pumpkin  is  hung  up  to  dry,  a 
dead  tomato-vine  saving  the  price  of  string.  A  boy's  winter 
cap  comes  off  a  squirrel's  back.  A  girl's  summer  head-gear 
is  the  twisting  and  twining  of  leaves  and  flowers. 

Not  all  the  houses  of  Vineland  are  up-ended  dry-goods 
boxes.  Some  are  large.  A  few  are  very  tasteful.  Tbo 
centre  of  the  colony  is  a  street  a  mile  in  length.  Ambi 
tious  stores  have  already  commenced  a  process  of  dete- 


DARBY]  LIFE  IN  BRUSHLAND.  301 

rioration  by  hanging  in  their  windows  the  fashion-plates 
of  the  day.  From  a  fashion-plate  to  a  woman's  shoulders 
is  not  a  long  distance.  From  a  Paris  dress  to  extreme 
feminity  is  a  shorter  distance.  Go  soon  if  you  want  to 
Bee  the  woman  in  pantaloons.  .  .  . 

Discoursing  of  Vineland  reminds  of  a  place  some  few 
miles  below  it.  There  is  a  certain  station  squat  down  upon 
a  sand-hill ;  squat  expresses  the  impression  produced. 
That  is  all  about  the  station.  You  leave  the  cars  there. 

This  brushland  region  is  full  of  cedar-water  streams. 
Cedar- water  in  its  purity !  Do  not  set  up  your  judgment 
on  water  until  you  have  seen  and  tasted  that  found  in  the 
cedar  regions  of  the  Jersey  barrens.  Black,  cold,  sweet, 
it  is  unlike  all  the  fluids  of  the  earth.  Its  blackness  is 
not  opacity,  it  is  transparency.  Obstruct  its  running  by 
a  handful  of  pebbles,  and  you  have  the  peculiar  sparkle 
of  a  diamond.  Drink  it, — or  perhaps  it  is  the  air  you 
breathe  in  connection  with  the  drink, — and  you  are  lifted 
up  by  some  exhilaration  unfelt  ever  before.  Not  very  far 
from  the  station  referred  to  is  a  stream  of  this  cedar- 
water  that  well  deserves  a  poet's  pen  to  write  its  praise. 
By  the  arbored  banks  of  the  runnel  Hygeia  may  be  as 
sumed  to  have  set  up  one  of  her  trysting-places.  One 
stretches  himself  in  the  shade  of  the  dense  foliage,  won 
dering  if  accident  has  not  revealed  to  him  the  hiding- 
place  of  the  fountain  searched  for  so  vainly  and  so  long 
by  Ponce  de  Leon.  The  place  is  not,  however,  without 
its  drawback. 

"  Mosquitoes !" 

I  have  been  there  often,  and  have  yet  to  meet  one. 
The  drawback  is  getting  to  it.  If  you  hire  a  wagon  and 
ride,  the  road  breaks  you  up.  Bump,  bump :  a  set  of 
axles  is  good  for  one  trip.  To  walk  is  well ;  only  ycu  are 
not  to  have  ankles  too  susceptible  to  the  depressing  in- 
ii.  26 


302  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [SPARKS 

fluence  of  water-soaked  pantaloon-legs.  It  was  an  idea 
once  seriously  entertained  by  the  writer  to  build  for  him 
self  a  summer  box  at  the  site  of  the  beautiful  stream,  an 
idea  which  would  undoubtedly  have  had  a  fruition  had  it 
not  been  for  fear  of  an  accidental  spark  from  a  passing 
locomotive,  or  of  an  ash  carelessly  thrown  aside  from  a 
tramp's  pipe.  Not  unique,  it  is  yet  anomalous,  that  here, 
within  a  stone-throw  of  a  health-and-pleasure-seeking  pop 
ulation,  passing  and  repassing  almost  hourly  to  and  from 
the  sea,  a  place  so  beautiful  exists  known  alone  to  the 
dryads  and  to  a  few  peregrinating  loiterers.  Some  time 
it  will  be  discovered  by  Boniface;  some  time  the  sweet 
water  will  be  polluted  by  beer-dregs. 


THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION, 

JARED  SPARKS. 

f  Jftred  Sparks,  a  distinguished  biographer  and  historian,  was  born 
in  Connecticut  in  1789.  He  became  a  minister  of  the  Unitarian  de 
nomination  in  1819.  From  1823  to  1830  he  was  editor  of  the  North 
American  Review.  His  first  biographical  work  was  the  "  Life  of  John 
Ledyard"  (1829).  But  his  most  important  production  in  this  field  is 
"  The  Life  and  Writings  of  George  Washington,"  in  twelve  volumes,  a 
work  which  Griswold  characterizes  as  "  in  all  respects  as  nearly  perfect 
as  possible."  He  edited  the  complete  works  of  Franklin,  and  wrote 
a  large  number  of  biographical  essays.  For  several  years  before  his 
death  in  1866  he  is  said  to  have  been  engaged  on  a  History  of  the 
American  Revolution.  As  a  writer  he  had  an  attractive  style,  and 
was  very  accurate,  impartial,  and  exhaustive.] 

THE  causes  of  the  Revolution,  so  fertile  a  theme  of 
speculation,  are  less  definite  than  have  been  imagined. 


SPARKS]  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION.  303 

The  whole  series  of  colonial  events  was  a  continued  and 
accumulating  cause.  The  spirit  was  kindled  in  England ; 
it  went  with  Robinson's  congregation  to  Holland ;  it 
landed  with  them  at  Plymouth ;  it  was  the  basis  of  the 
first  constitution  of  these  sage  and  self-taught  legislators ; 
it  never  left  them  nor  their  descendants.  It  extended  to 
the  other  colonies,  where  it  met  with  a  kindred  impulse, 
was  nourished  in  every  breast,  and  became  rooted  in  the 
feelings  of  the  whole  people. 

The  Eevolution  was  a  change  of  forms,  but  not  of  sub 
stance  ;  the  breaking  of  a  tie,  but  not  the  creation  of  a 
principle ;  the  establishment  of  an  independent  nation, 
but  not  the  origin  of  its  intrinsic  political  capacities. 
The  foundations  of  society,  although  unsettled  for  the 
moment,  were  not  essentially  disturbed ;  its  pillars  were 
shaken,  but  never  overthrown.  The  convulsions  of  war 
subsided,  and  the  people  found  themselves,  in  their  local 
relations  and  customs,  their  immediate  privileges  and  en 
joyments,  just  where  they  had  been  at  the  beginning. 
The  new  forms  transferred  the  supreme  authority  from 
the  King  and  Parliament  of  Great  Britain  to  the  hands 
of  the  people.  This  was  a  gain,  but  not  a  renovation ;  a 
security  against  future  encroachments,  but  not  an  exemp 
tion  from  any  old  duty,  nor  an  imposition  of  any  new 
one,  farther  than  that  of  being  at  the  trouble  to  govern 
themselves. 

Hence  the  latent  cause  of  what  has  been  called  a  revo 
lution  was  the  fact  that  the  political  spirit  and  habits  in 
America  had  waxed  into  a  shape  so  different  from  those 
in  England  that  it  was  no  longer  convenient  to  regulate 
them  by  the  same  forms.  In  other  words,  the  people  had 
grown  to  be  kings,  and  chose  to  exercise  their  sovereign 
prerogatives  in  their  own  way.  Time  alone  would  have 
effected  the  end,  probably  without  so  violent  an  explosion, 


304  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [SPARKS 

had  it  not  been  hastened  by  particular  events,  which  may 
be  denominated  the  proximate  causes. 

These  took  their  rise  at  the  close  of  the  French  War, 
twelve  years  before  the  actual  contest  began.  Eelieved 
from  future  apprehensions  of  the  French  power  on  the 
frontiers,  the  colonists  now  had  leisure  to  think  of  them 
selves,  of  their  political  affairs,  their  numbers,  their  United 
States.  At  this  juncture,  the  most  inauspicious  possible 
for  the  object  in  view,  the  precious  device  of  taxing  the 
colonies  was  resorted  to  by  the  British  ministry,  which, 
indeed,  had  been  for  some  time  a  secret  scheme  in  the 
cabinet,  and  had  been  recommended  by  the  same  saga 
cious  governor  of  Virginia  who  found  the  people  in  such 
a  republican  way  of  acting  that  he  could  not  manage  them 
to  his  purpose. 

The  fruit  of  this  policy  was  the  Stamp  Act,  which  has 
been  considered  a  primary  cause ;  and  it  was  so,  in  the 
same  sense  that  a  torch  is  the  cause  of  a  conflagration, 
kindling  the  flame,  but  not  creating  the  combustible 
materials.  Effects  then  became  causes,  and  the  trium 
phant  opposition  to  this  tax  was  the  cause  of  its  being 
renewed  on  tea  and  other  articles,  not  so  much,  it  was 
avowed,  for  the  amount  of  revenue  it  would  yield,  as  to 
vindicate  the  principle  that  Parliament  had  a  right  to  tax 
the  colonies.  The  people  resisted  the  act,  and  destroyed 
the  tea,  to  show  that  they  likewise  had  a  principle,  for 
which  they  felt  an  equal  concern. 

By  these  experiments  on  their  patience,  and  these 
struggles  to  oppose  them,  their  confidence  was  increased, 
as  the  tree  gains  ptrength  at  its  root  by  the  repeated 
blasts  of  the  tempest  against  its  branches.  From  this 
time  a  mixture  of  causes  was  at  work:  the  pride  of 
power,  the  disgrace  of  defeat,  the  arrogance  of  office,  on 
the  one  hand ;  a  sense  of  wrong,  indignant  feeling,  and 


SPARKS]  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION.  305 

enthusiasm  for  liberty,  on  the  other.  These  were  second 
ary,  having  slight  connection  with  the  first  springs  of 
the  Revolution,  or  the  pervading  force  by  which  it  was 
kept  up,  although  important  filaments  in  the  net- work  of 
history. 

The  acts  of  the  Eevolution  derive  dignity  and  interest 
from  the  character  of  the  actors  and  the  nature  and  mag 
nitude  of  the  events.  It  has  been  remarked  that  in  all 
great  political  revolutions  men  have  arisen  possessed  of 
extraordinary  endowments  adequate  to  the  exigency  of 
the  time.  It  is  true  enough  that  such  revolutions,  or 
any  remarkable  and  continued  exertions  of  human  power> 
must  be  brought  to  pass  by  corresponding  qualities  in  the 
agents ;  but  whether  the  occasion  makes  the  men,  or  men 
the  occasion,  may  not  always  be  ascertained  with  exact 
ness.  In  either  case,  however,  no  period  has  been  adorned 
with  examples  more  illustrious,  or  more  perfectly  adapted 
to  the  high  destiny  awaiting  them,  than  that  of  the  Amer 
ican  Eevolution. 

Statesmen  were  at  hand,  who,  if  not  skilled  in  the  art 
of  governing  empires,  were  thoroughly  imbued  with  the 
principles  of  just  government,  intimately  acquainted  with 
the  history  of  former  ages,  and,  above  all,  with  the  con 
dition,  sentiments,  and  feelings  of  their  countrymen.  If 
there  were  no  Eichelieus  nor  Mazarins,  no  Cecils  nor 
Chathams,  in  America,  there  were  men  who,  like  The- 
mistocles,  knew  how  to  raise  a  small  state  to  glory  and 
greatness. 

The  eloquence  and  the  internal  counsels  of  the  Old 
Congress  were  never  recorded;  we  know  them  only  in 
their  results ;  but  that  assembly,  with  no  other  power  than 
that  conferred  by  the  suffrage  of  the  people,  with  no  other 
influence  than  that  of  their  public  virtue  and  talents,  and 
without  precedent  to  guide  their  deliberations,  unsup- 
ii.— u  2f" 


306  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS  [SPARKS 

ported  even  by  the  arm  of  law  or  of  ancient  usages, — 
that  assembly  levied  troops,  imposed  taxes,  and  for  years 
not  only  retained  the  confidence  and  upheld  the  civil 
existence  of  a  distracted  country,  but  carried  through  a 
perilous  war  under  its  most  aggravating  burdens  of  sacri 
fice  and  suffering.  Can  we  imagine  a  situation  in  which 
were  required  higher  moral  courage,  more  intelligence 
and  talent,  a  deeper  insight  into  human  nature  and  the 
principles  of  social  and  political  organizations,  or,  indeed, 
any  of  those  qualities  which  constitute  greatness  of  char 
acter  in  a  statesman  ?  See,  likewise,  that  work  of  wonder, 
the  Confederation,  a  union  of  independent  states,  con 
structed  in  the  very  heart  of  a  desolating  war,  but  with 
a  beauty  and  strength,  imperfect  as  it  was,  of  which  the 
ancient  leagues  of  the  Amphictyons,  the  Achseans,  the 
Lycians,  and  the  modern  Confederacies  of  Germany,  Hol 
land,  Switzerland,  afford  neither  exemplar  nor  parallel. 

In  their  foreign  affairs  these  same  statesmen  showed  no 
less  sagacity  and  skill,  taking  their  stand  boldly  in  the 
rank  of  nations,  maintaining  it  there,  competing  with  the 
tactics  of  practised  diplomacy,  and  extorting  from  the 
powers  of  the  world  not  only  the  homage  of  respect,  but 
the  proffers  of  friendship. 

The  American  armies,  compared  with  the  embattled 
legions  of  the  Old  World,  were  small  in  numbers,  but  the 
soul  of  a  whole  people  centred  in  the  bosom  of  these  more 
than  Spartan  bands,  and  vibrated  quickly  and  keenly  with 
every  incident  that  befell  them,  whether  in  the  feats  of 
valor  or  the  acuteness  of  their  sufferings.  The  country 
was  one  wide  battle-field,  in  which  not  merely  the  life- 
blood,  but  the  dearest  interests,  the  sustaining  hopes,  of 
every  individual,  were  at  stake.  It  was  not  a  war  of 
pride  and  ambition  between  monarchs,  in  which  an  island 
or  a  province  might  be  the  award  of  success ;  it  was  a 


HILLHOUSE]  INTERVIEW  OF  HAD  AD  AND   TAMAR.      307 

contest  for  personal  liberty  and  civil  rights,  coming  down 
in  its  principles  to  the  very  sanctuary  of  home  and  the 
fireside,  and  determining  for  every  man  the  measure  of 
responsibility  he  should  hold  over  his  own  condition,  pos 
sessions,  and  happiness.  The  spectacle  was  grand  and 
new,  and  may  well  be  cited  as  the  most  glowing  page  in 
the  annals  of  progressive  man. 


INTERVIEW  OF  HADAD  AND  TAMAR. 

J.  A.  HILLHOUSE. 

[James  A.  Hillhouse  was  born  in  New  Haven,  Connecticut,  in  1789. 
His  first  poem,  "The  Judgment,  a  Vision,"  appeared  in  1812.  He 
afterwards  wrote  three  dramas,  entitled  "  Percy's  Masque,"  "  Hadad," 
and  "Demetria,"  which  have  been  much  admired.  He  died  in  1841. 
We  select  a  portion  of  a  scene  from  "  Hadad."  This  drama  is  based  on 
the  assumed  former  intercourse  between  man  and  spirits,  good  and  bad, 
Hadad  is  a  fallen  angel,  in  the  guise  of  a  Syrian  prince,  who  visits 
Jerusalem  in  the  time  of  King  David  and  falls  in  love  with  Tamar, 
the  sister  of  Absalom.  As  will  be  seen  from  our  extract,  the  success 
of  the  suit  of  the  seeming  heathen  prince  is  made  dependent  upon  his 
conversion  to  a  belief  in  Jehovah.] 

The  garden  of  ABSALOM'S  house  on  Mount  Zion,  near  the  palace,  over' 
looking  the  city.     TAMAR  sitting  by  a  fountain. 

Tarn.  How  aromatic  evening  grows !     The  flowers 
And  spicy  shrubs  exhale  like  onycha ; 
Spikenard  and  henna  emulate  in  sweets. 
Blest  hour !  which  He,  who  fashioned  it  so  fair, 
So  softly  glowing,  so  contemplative, 
Hath  set,  and  sanctified  to  look  on  man. 
And  lo  I  the  smoke  of  evening  sacrifice 


308  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.        [HILLHOTJS* 

Ascends  from  out  the  tabernacle.     Heaven, 
Accept  the  expiation,  and  forgive 
This  day's  offences  \    Ha !  the  wonted  strain, 
Precursor  of  his  coming ! — Whence  can  this — 
It  seems  to  flow  from  some  unearthly  hand 

[Enter  HADAD.] 

Had.  Does  beauteous  Tamar  view,  in  this  clear  fount, 
Herself,  or  heaven  ? 

Tarn.  Nay,  Hadad,  tell  me  whence 
Those  sad,  mysterious  sounds. 

Had.  What  sounds,  dear  princess  ? 

Tarn.  Surely,  thou  know'st ;  and  now  I  almost  think 
Some  spiritual  creature  waits  on  thee. 

Had.  I  heard  no  sounds,  but  such  as  evening  sends 
Up  from  the  city  to  these  quiet  shades ; 
A  blended  murmur  sweetly  harmonizing 
With  flowing  fountains,  feathered  minstrelsy, 
And  voices  from  the  hills. 

Tarn.  The  sounds  I  mean 
Floated  like  mournful  music  round  my  head, 
From  unseen  fingers. 

Had.  When? 

Tarn.  Now,  as  thou  earnest. 

Had.  'Tis  but  thy  fancy,  wrought 
To  ecstasy;  or  else  thy  grandsire's  harp 
Resounding  from  his  tower  at  eventide. 
I've  lingered  to  enjoy  its  solemn  tones, 
Till  the  broad  moon,  that  rose  o'er  Olivet, 
Stood  listening  in  the  zenith ;  yea,  have  deemed 
Viols  and  heavenly  voices  answered  him. 

Tarn.  But  these 

Had.  Were  we  in  Syria,  I  might  say 
The  Naiad  of  the  fount,  or  some  sweet  Nymph, 


HILLHOUSE]  INTERVIEW  OF  HAD  AD  AND   TAMAR.      309 

The  goddess  of  these  shades,  rejoiced  in  thee, 
And  gave  thee  salutations ;  but  I  fear 
Judah  would  call  me  infidel  to  Moses. 

Tarn.  How  like  my  fancy  1  When  these  strains  precede 
Thy  steps,  as  oft  they  do,  I  love  to  think 
Some  gentle  being  who  delights  in  us 
Is  hovering  near,  and  warns  me  of  thy  coming , 
But  they  are  dirge-like. 

Had.  Youthful  fantasy, 

Attuned  to  sadness,  makes  them  seem  so,  lady. 
So  evening's  charming  voices,  welcomed  ever, 
As  signs  of  rest  and  peace, — the  watchman's  call, 
The  closing  gates,  the  Levite's  mellow  trump, 
Announcing  the  returning  moon,  the  pipe 
Of  swains,  the  bleat,  the  bark,  the  housing-bell, — 
Send  melancholy  to  a  drooping  soul. 

Tarn.  But  how  delicious  are  the  pensive  dreams 
That  steal  upon  the  fancy  at  their  call ! 

Had.  Delicious  to  behold  the  world  at  rest. 
Meek  labor  wipes  his  brow,  and  intermits 
The  curse,  to  clasp  the  younglings  of  his  cot ; 
Herdsmen  and  shepherds  fold  their  flocks, — and  hark! 
What  merry  strains  they  send  from  Olivet ! 
The  jar  of  life  is  still ;  the  city  speaks 
In  gentle  murmurs ;  voices  chime  with  lutes 
Waked  in  the  streets  and  gardens ;  loving  pairs 
Eye  the  red  west  in  one  another's  arms ; 
And  nature,  breathing  dew  and  fragrance,  yields 
A  glimpse  of  happiness,  which  He,  who  formed 
Earth  and  the  stars,  had  power  to  make  eternal. 

Tarn.  Ah,  Hadad,  meanest  thou  to  reproach  the  Friend 
Who  gave  so  much,  because  he  gave  not  all  ? 

Had,.  Perfect  benevolence,  methinks,  had  willed 
Unceasing  happiness,  and  peace,  and  joy ; 


310  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.       [HILLHOUSB 

Filled  the  whole  universe  of  human  hearts 
With  pleasure,  like  a  flowing  spring  of  life. 

Tarn.  Our  Prophet  teaches  so,  till  man's  rebellion. 

Had.  Rebellion  I     Had  he  'leaguered  Heaven  itself 
With  beings  powerful,  numberless,  and  dreadful, 
Mixed  onset  'midst  the  lacerating  hail, 
And  snake-tongued  thunderbolts,  that  hissed  and  stung 
Worse  than  eruptive  mountains, — this  had  fallen 
Within  the  category.     But  what  did  man  ? 
Tasted  an  apple !  and  the  fragile  scene, 
Eden,  and  innocence,  and  human  bliss, 
The  nectar-flowing  streams,  life-giving  fruits, 
Celestial  shades,  and  amaranthine  flowers, 
Vanish ;  and  sorrow,  toil,  and  pain,  and  death. 
Cleave  to  him  by  an  everlasting  curse. 

Tarn.  Ah !  talk  not  thus. 

Had.  Is  this  benevolence  ? — 

Nay,  loveliest,  these  things  sometimes  trouble  me ; 
For  I  was  tutored  in  a  brighter  faith. 
Our  Syrians  deem  each  lucid  fount  and  stream, 
Forest  and  mountain,  glade  and  bosky  dell, 
Peopled  with  kind  divinities,  the  friends 
Of  man,  a  spiritual  race  allied 
To  him  by  many  sympathies,  who  seek 
His  happiness,  inspire  him  with  gay  thoughts, 
Cool  with  their  waves,  and  fan  him  with  their  airs. 
O'er  them,  the  Spirit  of  the  Universe, 
Or  Soul  of  Nature,  circumfuses  all 
With  mild,  benevolent,  and  sun-like  radiance, 
Pervading,  warming,  vivifying  earth, 
As  spirit  does  the  body,  till  green  herbs, 
And  beauteous  flowers,  and  branchy  cedars  rise ; 
And  shooting  stellar  influence  through  her  caves, 
Whence  minerals  and  gems  imbibe  their  lustre. 


HI^HOUSE]  INTERVIEW  OF  HADAD  AND   TAMAR.      311 

Tarn.  Dreams,  Hadad,  empty  dreams. 

Had.  These  deities 

They  invocate  with  cheerful,  gentle  rites, 
Hang  garlands  on  their  altars,  heap  their  shrines 
With  Nature's  bounties,  fruits,  and  fragrant  flowers. 

Not  like  yon  gory  mount  that  ever  reeks 

»    Tarn.  Cast  not  reproach  upon  the  holy  altar. 

Had.  Nay,  sweet. — Having  enjoyed  all  pleasures  here 
That  Nature  prompts,  but  chiefly  blissful  love, 
At  death,  the  happy  Syrian  maiden  deems 
Her  immaterial  flies  into  the  fields, 
Or  circumambient  clouds,  or  crystal  brooks, 
And  dwells,  a  deity,  with  those  she  worshipped, 
Till  time  or  fate  return  her  in  its  course 
To  quaff,  once  more,  the  cup  of  human  joy. 

Tarn.  But  thou  believ'st  not  this  ? 

Had.  I  almost  wish 

Thou  didst ;  for  I  have  feared,  my  gentle  Tamar, 
Thy  spirit  is  too  tender  for  a  law 
Announced  in  terrors,  coupled  with  the  threats 
Of  an  inflexible  and  dreadful  Being, 
"Whose  word  annihilates, — who  could  arrest 
The  sun  in  heaven,  or,  if  he  pleased,  abolish 
Light  from  creation,  and  leave  wretched  man 
To  darkness.  .  .  . 

Nay,  nay,  I  grieve  thee :  'tis  not  for  myself, 
But  that  I  fear  these  gloomy  things  oppress 
Thy  soul,  and  cloud  its  native  sunshine. 

Tarn.  (In  tears,  clasping  her  hands.) 
Witness,  ye  heavens !  Eternal  Father,  witness  I 
Blest  God  of  Jacob !  Maker !  Friend !  Preserver  I 
That  with  my  heart,  my  undivided  soul, 
I  love,  adore,  and  praise  thy  glorious  name, 
Confess  thee  Lord  of  all,  believe  thy  laws 


312  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOLLAND 

Wise,  just,  and  merciful,  as  they  are  true. 

Oh,  Hadad,  Hadad !  you  misconstrue  much 

The  sadness  that  usurps  me :  'tis  for  thee 

i  grieve, — for  hopes  that  fade, — for  your  lost  soul, 

And  my  lost  happiness. 

Had.  Oh,  say  not  so, 
Beloved  princess.     "Why  distrust  my  faith  ? 

Tarn.  Thou  know'st,  alas!  my  weakness;  but,  remember, 
I  never,  never  will  be  thine,  although 
The  feast,  the  blessing,  and  the  song  were  past, 
Though  Absalom  and  David  called  me  bride, 
Till  sure  thou  own'st  with  truth  and  love  sincere 
The  Lord  Jehovah. 


OUTWITTING  A  LAWYER. 

J.  G.  HOLLAND. 

[Popular  as  have  been  the  works  of  Josiah  G.  Holland,  they  have 
met  with  a  severe  reception  from  critics,  and  certainly  do  not  merit  a 
very  high  niche  in  the  temple  of  literary  fame.  Yet  Jim  Fenton,  the 
backwoodsman  of  "  Sevenoaks,"  is  a  character  that  would  do  credit 
to  any  novelist,  and  stands  as  a  redeeming  feature  in  Holland's  some 
what  commonplace  sensationalism.  We  give  one  of  the  numerous 
amusing  scenes  in  which  this  racy  character  appears.  In  addition 
to  his  novels,  Holland  has  attained  a  reputation  by  his  Timothy  Tit- 
comb  letters,  and  his  dramatic  poem  of  "  Bittersweet,"  which  gained 
a  high  degree  of  popularity,  and  is  his  most  meritorious  work.] 

HE  spent  a  delightful  week  among  his  friends  in  the  old 
village,  learned  about  Jim  Fenton  and  the  way  to  reach 
him,  and  on  a  beautiful  spring  morning,  armed  with 
fishing-tackle,  started  from  Sevenoaks  for  a  fortnight's 
absence  in  the  woods.  The  horses  were  fresh,  the  air 


HOLLAND]  OUTWITTING  A  LAWYER.  313 

sparkling,  and  at  mid-afternoon  he  found  himself  standing 
by  the  river-side,  with  a  row  of  ten  miles  before  him  in  a 
birch  canoe,  whose  hiding-place  Mike  Conlin  had  revealed 
to  him  during  a  brief  call  at  his  house.  To  his  unused 
muscles  it  was  a  serious  task  to  undertake,  but  he  was 
not  a  novice,  and  it  was  entered  upon  deliberately  and 
with  a  prudent  husbandry  of  his  power  of  endurance. 
Great  was  the  surprise  of  Jim  and  Mr.  Benedict,  as  they 
sat  eating  their  late  supper,  to  hear  the  sound  of  the 
paddle  down  the  river,  and  to  see  approaching  them  a 
city  gentleman,  who,  greeting  them  courteously,  drew  up 
in  front  of  their  cabin,  took  out  his  luggage,  and  presented 
himself. 

"  Where's  Jim  Fenton?"  said  Yates. 

"  That's  me.  Them  as  likes  me  calls  me  Jim,  and  them 
as  don't  like  me — wall,  they  don't  call." 

"  Well,  I've  called,  and  I  call  you  Jim." 

"  All  right ;  let's  see  yer  tackle,"  said  Jim. 

Jim  took  the  rod  that  Yates  handed  to  him,  looked  it 
over,  and  then  said,  "  When  ye  come  to  Sevenoaks  ye 
didn't  think  o'  goin'  a-fishin'.  This  'ere  tackle  wasn't 
brung  from  the  city,  and  ye  ain't  no  old  fisherman.  This 
is  the  sort  they  keep  down  to  Sevenoaks.'' 

"No,"  said  Yates,  flushing;  "I  thought  I  should  find 
near  you  the  tackle  used  here,  so  I  didn't  burden  myself." 

"  That  seems  reasonable,"  said  Jim,  "  but  it  ain't.  A 
trout's  a  trout  anywhere,  an'  ye  hain't  got  no  reel.  Ye 
never  fished  with  anything  but  a  white  birch  pole  in  yer 
life." 

Yates  was  amused,  and  laughed.  Jim  did  not  laugh. 
He  was  just  as  sure  that  Yates  had  come  on  some  errand 
for  which  his  fishing-tackle  was  a  cover,  as  that  he  had 
come  at  all.  He  could  think  of  but  one  motive  that  would 
bring  the  man  into  the  woods,  unless  he  came  for  sport, 
TT.— o  27 


314  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOLLAND 

and  for  sport  he  did  not  believe  his  visitor  had  come  at 
all.  He  was  not  dressed  for  it.  None  but  old  sportsmen, 
with  nothing  else  to  do,  ever  came  into  the  woods  at  that 
season. 

"  Jim,  introduce  me  to  your  friend,"  said  Yates,  turning 
to  Mr.  Benedict,  who  had  dropped  his  knife  and  fork  and 
sat  uneasily  witnessing  the  meeting  and  listening  to  the 
conversation. 

"  Well,  I  call  'im  Number  Ten.  His  name's  Williams ; 
an'  now,  if  ye  ain't  too  tired,  perhaps  ye'll  tell  us  what 
they  call  ye  to  home." 

"  Well,  I'm  Number  Eleven,  and  my  name's  Williams, 
too." 

"  Then,  if  yer  name's  Williams,  an'  ye're  Number  'leven, 
ye  want  some  supper.  Set  down  an'  help  yerself." 

Before  taking  his  seat,  Yates  turned  laughingly  to  Mr. 
Benedict,  shook  his  hand,  and  "hoped  for  a  better  ac 
quaintance." 

Jim  was  puzzled.  The  man  was  no  ordinary  man ;  he 
was  good-natured ;  he  was  not  easily  perturbed ;  he  was 
there  with  a  purpose,  and  that  purpose  had  nothing  to  do 
with  sport. 

After  Yates  had  satisfied  his  appetite  with  the  coarse 
food  before  him,  and  had  lighted  his  cigar,  Jim  drove 
directly  at  business. 

"  What  brung  ye  here  ?'*  said  he. 

"  A  pair  of  horses  and  a  birch  canoe." 

•'  Oh  I  I  didn't  know  but  'twas  a  mule  and  a  bandanner 
honkercher,"  said  Jim.  "  And  whar  be  ye  goin'  to  sleep 
to-night  ?" 

"  In  the  canoe,  I  suppose,  if  some  hospitable  man  doesn't 
invite  me  to  sleep  in  his  cabin." 

"An'  if  ye  sleep  in  his  cabin,  what  be  ye  goin'  to  do  to- 
morrer  ?" 


HOLLAND]  OUTWITTING  A  LAWYER.  315 

«  Get  up." 

"  An'  clear  out  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it." 

""Well,  I  love  to  see  folks  make  themselves  to  home; 
but  ye  don't  sleep  in  no  cabin  o'  mine  till  I  know  who  ye 
be,  an'  what  ye're  arter." 

"Jim,  did  you  ever  hear  of  entertaining  angels  un 
aware  ?"  And  Yates  looked  laughingly  into  his  face. 

"  No,  but  I've  hearn  of  angels  entertainin'  theirselves  en 
tin-ware,  an'  I've  had  'em  here." 

"Do  you  have  tin-peddlers  here?"  inquired  Yates,  look 
ing  around  him. 

"  No,  but  we  have  paupers  sometimes."  And  Jim  looked 
Yates  directly  in  the  eye. 

"  What  paupers  ?" 

"  Prom  Sevenoaks." 

"  And  do  they  bring  tin-ware  ?" 

"  Sartin  they  do ;  leastways,  one  on  'em  did,  an'  I  never 
seen  but  one  in  the  woods,  an'  he  come  here  one  night 
tootin'  on  a  tin  horn  an'  blowin'  about  bein'  the  angel 
Gabr'el.  Do  you  see  my  har  ?" 

"  Bather  bushy,  Jim." 

"  Well,  that's  the  time  it  come  up,  an'  it's  never  been 
tired  enough  to  lay  down  sence." 

"What  became  of  Gabriel?" 

"  I  skeered  'im,  and  he  went  off  into  the  woods  per- 
tendin'  he  was  tryin'  to  catch  a  bullet.  That's  the  kind 
o'  ball  I  allers  use  when  I  have  a  little  game  with  a  rovin1 
angel  that  comes  kadoodlin'  round  me." 

"'Did  you  ever  see  him  afterward  ?"  inquired  Yates. 

"  Yes,  I  seen  him.  He  laid  down  one  night  under  a  tree, 
an'  ho  wasn't  called  to  breakfast,  an'  he  never  woke  up. 
So  I  made  up  my  mind  he'd  gone  to  play  angel  some- 
wheres  else,  an'  I  dug  a  hole  an'  put  'im  into  it,  an'  he 


316  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOLLAND 

hain't  never  riz,  if  so  be  he  wasn't  Number  'leven  an'  hifl 
name  was  Williams." 

Yates  did  not  laugh,  but  manifested  the  most  eager 
interest. 

"Jim,"  said  he,  "can  you  show  me  his  bones,  and  swear 
to  your  belief  that  he  was  an  escaped  pauper  ?" 

"  Easy." 

"  Was  there  a  man  lost  from  the  poor-house  about  that 
time?" 

"  Yes,  an'  there  was  a  row  about  it,  an'  arterward  old 
Buffum  was  took  with  knowin'  less  than  he  ever  knowed 
afore.  He  always  did  make  a  fuss  about  breathin',  so  he 
give  it  up." 

"  Well,  the  man  you  buried  is  the  man  I'm  after." 

"Yes,  an'  old  Belcher  sent  ye.  I  knowed  it.  I  smelt 
the  old  feller  when  I  heern  yer  paddle.  When  a  feller 
works  for  the  devil  it  ain't  hard  to  guess  what  sort  of  a 
angel  he  is.  Ye  must  feel  mighty  proud  o'  yer  belongin's." 

"  Jim,  I'm  a  lawyer ;  it's  my  business.  I  do  what  I'm 
hired  to  do." 

"Well,"  responded  Jim,  "I  don't  know  nothin'  about 
lawyers,  but  I'd  rather  be  a  natural-born  cuss  nor  a  hired 
one." 

Yates  laughed,  but  Jim  was  entirely  sober.  The  lawyer 
saw  that  he  was  unwelcome,  and  that  the  sooner  he  was 
out  of  Jim's  way  the  better  that  freely-speaking  person 
would  like  it.  So  he  said,  quietly, — 

"  Jim,  I  see  that  I  am  not  welcome,  but  I  bear  you  no 
ill  will.  Keep  me  to-night,  and  to-morrow  show  me  this 
man's  bones,  and  sign  a  certificate  of  the  statements  you 
have  made  to  me,  and  I  will  leave  you  at  once." 

The  woodsman  made  no  more  objection,  and  the  next 
morning  after  breakfast  the  three  men  went  together  and 
found  the  place  of  the  pauper's  burial.  It  took  but  a  few 


HOLLAND]  OUTWITTING  A  LAWYER.  317 

minutes  to  disinter  the  skeleton,  and,  after  a  silent  look  at 
it,  it  was  again  buried,  and  all  returned  to  the  cabin. 
Then  the  lawyer,  after  asking  further  questions,  drew  up 
a  paper  certifying  to  all  the  essential  facts  in  the  case, 
and  Jim  signed  it. 

"Now,  how  be  ye  goin'  to  git  back  to  Sevenoaks?" 
inquired  Jim. 

"  I  don't  know.  The  man  who  brought  me  in  is  not  to 
come  for  me  for  a  fortnight." 

"  Then  ye've  got  to  huff  it,"  responded  Jim. 

"  It's  a  long  way." 

"  Ye  can  do  it  as  fur  as  Mike's,  an'  he'll  be  glad  to  git 
back  some  o'  the  hundred  dollars  that  old  Belcher  got  out 
of  him." 

"  The  row  and  the  walk  will  be  too  much." 

"  I'll  take  ye  to  the  landing,"  said  Jim. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  pay  you  for  the  job,"  responded 
Yates. 

"  An'  ef  ye  do,"  said  Jim,  "  there'll  be  an  accident,  an' 
two  men'll  get  wet,  an'  one  on  'em'll  stan'  a  chance  to  be 
drownded." 

"  Well,  have  your  own  way,"  said  Yates. 

It  was  not  yet  noon,  and  Jim  hurried  off  his  visitor. 
Yates  bade  good-by  to  Benedict,  jumped  into  Jim's  boat, 
and  was  soon  out  of  sight  down  the  stream.  The  boat 
fairly  leaped  through  the  water  under  Jim's  strong  and 
steady  strokes,  and  it  seemed  that  only  an  hour  had 
passed  when  the  landing  was  discovered. 

They  made  the  whole  distance  in  silence.  Jim,  sitting 
at  his  oars,  with  Yates  in  the  stern,  had  watched  the 
lawyer  with  a  puzzled  expression.  He  could  not  read 
him.  The  man  had  not  said  a  word  about  Benedict.  He 
had  not  once  pronounced  his  name.  He  was  evidently 
amused  with  something,  and  had  great  difficulty  in  sup- 
ii.  27* 


318  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOLLAND 

pressing  a  smile.  Again  and  again  the  amused  expression 
suffused  the  lawyer's  face,  and  still,  by  an  effort  of  will,  it 
was  smothered.  Jim  was  in  torture.  The  man  seemed 
to  be  in  possession  of  some  great  secret,  and  looked  as 
if  he  only  waited  an  opportunity  beyond  observation  to 
burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  What  the  devil  be  ye  thinkin'  on  ?"  inquired  Jim,  at 
last. 

Yates  looked  him  in  the  eyes,  and  replied,  coolly, — 

"  I  was  thinking  how  well  Benedict  is  looking." 

Jim  stopped  rowing,  holding  his  oars  in  the  air.  He  was 
dumb.  His  face  grew  almost  livid,  and  his  hair  seemed  to 
rise  and  stand  straight  all  over  his  head.  His  first  im 
pulse  was  to  spring  upon  the  man  and  throttle  him ;  but 
a  moment's  reflection  determined  him  upon  another  course. 
He  let  his  oars  drop  into  the  water,  and  then  took  up  the 
rifle,  which  he  always  carried  at  his  side.  Raising  it  to 
his  eye,  he  said, — 

"Now,  Number  'leven,  come  an'  take  my  seat.  Ef  ye 
make  any  fuss,  I'll  tip  ye  into  the  river,  or  blow  yer  brains 
out.  Any  man  that  plays  traitor  with  Jim  Fenton  gits 
traitor's  fare." 

Yates  saw  that  he  had  made  a  fatal  mistake,  and  that  it 
was  too  late  to  correct  it.  He  saw  that  Jim  waa  danger 
ously  excited,  and  that  it  would  not  do  to  excite  him  fur 
ther.  He  therefore  rose,  and,  with  feigned  pleasantry, 
said  he  should  be  very  glad  to  row  to  the  landing. 

Jim  passed  him  and  took  a  seat  in  the  stern  of  the  boat. 
Then,  as  Yates  took  up  the  oars,  Jim  raised  his  rifle,  and, 
pointing  it  directly  at  the  lawyer's  breast,  said, — 

"  Now,  Sam  Yates,  turn  this  boat  round." 

Yates  was  surprised  in  turn,  bit  his  lips,  and  hesitated. 

"Turn  this  boat  round,  or  I'll  fix  ye  so't  I  can  see 
through  ye  plainer  nor  I  do  now." 


HOLLAND]  OUTWITTING  A  LAWYER.  319 

"  Surely,  Jim,  you  don't  mean  to  have  me  row  back.  I 
haven't  harmed  you." 

"  Turn  this  boat  round,  quicker  nor  lightnin'." 

"  There,  it's  turned,"  said  Yates,  assuming  a  smile. 

"  Now  row  back  to  Number  Nine." 

"Come,  Jim,"  said  Yates,  growing  pale  with  vexation 
and  apprehension,  "  this  fooling  has  gone  far  enough." 

"  Not  by  ten  mile,"  said  Jim. 

"  You  surely  don't  mean  to  take  me  back.  You  have  no 
right  to  do  it.  I  can  prosecute  you  for  this." 

"  Not  if  I  put  a  bullet  through  ye,  or  drown  ye." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  have  me  row  back  to  Number  Nine  ?" 

"  I  mean  to  have  you  row  back  to  Number  Nine,  or  go 
to  the  bottom  leakin',"  responded  Jim. 

Yates  thought  a  moment,  looked  angrily  at  the  deter 
mined  man  before  him,  as  if  he  were  meditating  some  rash 
experiment,  and  then  dipped  his  oars  and  rowed  up-stream. 

Great  was  the  surprise  of  Mr.  Benedict  late  in  the 
afternoon  to  see  Yates  slowly  rowing  toward  the  cabin, 
and  landing  under  cover  of  Jim's  rifle,  and  the  blackest 
face  that  he  had  ever  seen  above  his  good  friend's  shoul 
ders. 

When  the  boat  touched  the  bank,  Jim,  still  with  his 
rifle  pointed  at  the  breast  of  Sam  Yates,  said, — 

"Now  git  out,  an'  take  a  bee-line  for  the  shanty,  an'  see 
how  many  paces  you  make  on't." 

Yates  was  badly  blown  by  his  row  of  ten  miles  on  the 
river,  and  could  hardly  stir  from  his  seat ;  but  Mr.  Bene 
dict  helped  him  up  the  bank,  and  then  Jim  followed  him 
on  shore. 

Benedict  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  mingled 
surprise  and  consternation,  and  then  said, — 

"  Jim,  what  does  this  mean  ?" 

"  It  means,"  replied  Jim,  "  that  Number  'leven,  an'  his 


320  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOLLAND 

name  is  Williams,  forgot  to  'tend  to  his  feelin's  over  old 
Tilden's  grave,  an'  I've  axed  'im  to  come  back  an'  use  up 
his  clean  hankerchers.  He  was  took  with  a  fit  o'  knowin' 
somethin',  too,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  see  if  I  can  cure  'im.  It's 
a  new  sort  o'  sickness  for  him,  and  it  may  floor  'im." 

"  I  suppose  there  is  no  use  in  carrying  on  this  farce  any 
longer,"  said  Yates.  "I  knew  you,  Mr.  Benedict,  soon 
after  arriving  here,  and  it  seems  that  you  recognized  me ; 
and  now,  here  is  my  hand.  I  never  meant  you  ill,  and  I 
did  not  expect  to  find  you  alive.  I  have  tried  my  best  to 
make  you  out  a  dead  man,  and  so  to  report  you ;  but  Jim 
has  compelled  me  to  come  back  and  make  sure  that  you 
are  alive." 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  responded  Jim.  "  I  wanted  to  let  ye 
know  that  I'm  alive,  and  that  I  don't  'low  no  hired  cusses 
to  come  snoopin'  round  my  camp,  an'  goin'  off  with  a  haw- 
haw  buttoned  up  in  their  jackets,  without  a  thrashin'." 

Benedict,  of  course,  stood  thunderstruck  and  irresolute. 
He  was  discovered  by  the  very  man  whom  his  old  perse 
cutor  had  sent  for  the  purpose.  He  had  felt  that  the  dis 
covery  would  be  made  sooner  or  later, — intended,  indeed, 
that  it  should  be  made, — but  he  was  not  ready. 

They  all  walked  to  the  cabin  in  moody  silence.  Jim 
felt  that  he  had  been  hasty,  and  was  very  strongly  in 
clined  to  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  Yates ;  but  he  knew 
it  was  safe  to  be  on  his  guard  with  any  man  who  was  in 
the  employ  of  Mr.  Belcher.  Turk  saw  there  was  trouble, 
and  whined  around  his  master,  as  if  inquiring  whether 
there  was  anything  that  he  could  do  to  bring  matters  to 
an  adjustment. 

"No,  Turk;  he's  my  game,"  said  Jim.  "Ye  couldn't 
eat  'im,  no  more  nor  ye  could  a  muss-rat." 

There  were  just  three  seats  in  the  cabin, — two  camp- 
Btools  and  a  chest 


HOLLAND]  OUTWITTING  A  LAWYER.  321 

"  That's  the  seat  for  ye,"  said  Jim  to  Yates,  pointing  to 
the  chest.  "  Jest  plant  yerself  thar.  Thar's  somethin'  in 
that  'ere  chest  as'll  make  ye  tell  the  truth." 

Yates  looked  at  the  chest  and  hesitated. 

"  It  ain't  powder,"  said  Jim,  "  but  it'll  blow  ye  worse 
nor  powder,  if  ye  don't  tell  the  truth." 

Yates  sat  down.  He  had  not  appreciated  the  anxiety 
of  Benedict  to  escape  discovery,  or  he  would  not  have 
been  so  silly  as  to  bruit  his  knowledge  until  he  had  left 
the  woods.  He  felt  ashamed  of  his  indiscretion,  but,  as 
he  knew  that  his  motives  were  good,  he  could  not  but 
feel  that  he  had  been  outraged. 

"  Jim,  you  have  abused  me,"  said  he.  "  You  have  mis 
understood  me ;  and  that  is  the  only  apology  that  you  can 
make  for  your  discourtesy.  I  was  a  fool  to  tell  you  what 
I  knew,  but  you  had  no  right  to  serve  me  as  you  have 
served  me." 

"  P'raps  I  hadn't,"  responded  Jim,  doubtfully. 

Yates  went  on : 

"  I  have  never  intended  to  play  you  a  trick.  It  may  be 
a  base  thing  for  me  to  do,  but  I  intended  to  deceive  Mr. 
Belcher.  He  is  a  man  to  whom  I  owe  no  good  will.  He 
has  always  treated  me  like  a  dog,  and  he  will  continue  the 
treatment  so  long  as  I  have  anything  to  do  with  him ;  but 
he  found  me  when  I  was  very  low,  and  he  has  furnished 
me  with  the  money  that  has  made  it  possible  for  me  to 
redeem  myself.  Believe  me,  the  finding  of  Mr.  Benedict 
was  the  most  unwelcome  discovery  I  ever  made." 

"  Ye  talk  reasonable,"  said  Jim ;  "  but  how  be  I  goin'  to 
know  that  ye're  tellin'  the  truth  ?" 

"  You  cannot  know,"  replied  Yates.  "  The  circumstances 
are  all  against  me,  but  you  will  be  obliged  to  trust  me. 
You  are  not  going  to  kill  me ;  you  are  not  going  to  harm 
me ;  for  you  would  gain  nothing  by  getting  my  ill  will. 

II. V 


322  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOLLAND 

I  forgive  your  indignities,  for  it  was  natural  for  you  to  bo 
provoked,  and  I  provoked  you  needlessly, — childishly,  in 
fact ;  but,  after  what  I  have  said,  anything  further  in  that 
line  will  not  be  borne." 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  lick  ye  now,"  said  Jim,  on  hearing 
himself  defied. 

"  You  would  be  a  fool  to  undertake  it,"  said  Yates. 

"  Well,  what  be  ye  goin'  to  tell  old  Belcher,  anyway  ?" 
inquired  Jim. 

"  I  doubt  whether  I  shall  tell  him  anything.  I  have  no 
intention  of  telling  him  that  Mr.  Benedict  is  here,  and  I 
do  not  wish  to  tell  him  a  lie,  I  have  intended  to  tell  him 
that  in  all  my  journey  to  Sevenoaks  I  did  not  find  the 
object  of  my  search,  and  that  Jim  Fenton  declared  that 
but  one  pauper  had  ever  come  into  the  woods  and  died 
there." 

"  That's  the  truth,"  said  Jim.  "  Benedict  ain't  no  pau 
per,  nor  hain't  been  since  he  left  the  poor-house." 

"  If  he  knows  about  old  Tilden,"  said  Yates,  "  and  I'm 
afraid  he  does,  he'll  know  that  I'm  on  the  wrong  scent. 
If  he  doesn't  know  about  him,  he'll  naturally  conclude 
that  the  dead  man  was  Mr.  Benedict.  That  will  answer 
his  purpose." 

"  Old  Belcher  ain't  no  fool,"  said  Jim. 

"Well,"  said  Yates,  "why  doesn't  Mr.  Benedict  come 
out  like  a  man  and  claim  his  rights  ?  That  would  relieve 
me,  and  settle  all  the  difficulties  of  the  case." 

Benedict  had  nothing  to  say  for  this,  for  there  was  what 
he  felt  to  be  a  just  reproach  in  it. 

"  It's  the  way  he's  made,"  replied  Jim, — "  leastways, 
partly.  When  a  man's  be'n  hauled  through  hell  by  the 
har,  it  takes  'im  a  few  days  to  git  over  bein'  dizzy  an'  find 
his  legs  ag'in ;  an'  when  a  man  sells  himself  to  old  Belcher, 
he  mustn't  squawk  an'  try  to  git  another  feller  to  help 


HOLLAND]  OUTWITTING  A  LAWYER.  323 

Mm  out  of  'is  bargain.  Ye  got  into't,  an'  ye  must  git  out 
on't  the  best  way  ye  can." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?"  inquired  Yates., 

"  I  want  to  have  ye  sw'ar,  an'  sign  a  Happy  David." 

"A  what?" 

"  A  Happy  David.  Ye  ain't  no  lawyer  if  ye  don't  know 
what  a  Happy  David  is,  and  can't  make  one." 

Yates  recognized,  with  a  smile,  the  nature  of  the  instru 
ment  disguised  in  Jim's  pronunciation  and  conception, 
and  inquired^ — 

"  "What  would  you  have  me  to  swear  to  ?  " 

"  To  what  I  tell  ye." 

"Yery  well.  I  have  pen  and  paper  with  me,  and  am 
ready  to  write.  Whether  I  will  sign  the  paper  will  depend 
upon  its  contents." 

"Be  ye  ready?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Here  ye  have  it,  then,  '  I  solem-ny  sw'ar,  s'weip  me ! 
that  I  hain't  seen  no  pauper,  in  no  woods,  with  his-  name 
as  Benedict.' " 

Jim  paused,  and  Yates,  having  completed  the  sentence, 
waited.  Then  Jim  muttered  to  himself, — 

"  With  his  name  as  Benedict — with,  his  name  is  Benedict, 
— with  his  name  was  Benedict." 

Then,  with  a  puzzled  look,  he  said, — 

"  Yates,  can't  ye  doctor  that  a  little  ?" 

"  Whose  name  was  Benedict,"  suggested  Yates, 

"Whose  name  was  Benedict,"  continued  Jim.  "Now 
read  it  over,  as  fur  as  ye've  got." 

"  '  I  solemnly  swear  that  I  have  seen  no  pauper  in  thf 
woods  whose  name  was  Benedict.'  " 

"  Now  look  a-here,  Sam  Yates  ;  that  sort  o'  thing  won't 
do.  Stop  them  tricks.  Ye  don't  know  me,  an'  ye  don't 
know  whar  ye're  settin',  if  you  think  that'll  go  down." 


324  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOLLAND 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?" 

"  I  tolled  ye  that  Benedict  was  no  pauper,  an'  ye  say 
that  ye've  seen  no  pauper  whose  name  was  Benedict. 
That's  jest  tellin'  that  he's  here.  Oh,  ye  can't  come  that 
game !  Now  begin  ag'in,  an'  write  jest  as  I  give  it  to  ye. 
'  I  solem-ny  sw'ar,  s'welp  me !  that  I  hain't  seen  no  pauper, 
in  no  woods,  whose  name  was  Benedict.' " 

"  Done,"  said  Yates ;  "  hut  it  isn't  grammar." 

"  Hang  the  grammar !"  responded  Jim :  "  what  I  want 
is  sense.  Now  jine  this  on :  '  An'  I  solem-ny  sw'ar,  s'welp 
me !  that  I  won't  blow  on  Benedict,  as  isn't  a  pauper, — no 
more  nor  Jim  Fenton  is ;  an'  if  so  be  as  I  do  blow  on 
Benedict,  I  give  Jim  Fenton  free  liberty,  out  and  out,  to 
lick  me — without  goin'  to  lor — but  takin'  the  privlidge 
of  self-defence.' " 

Jim  thought  a  moment.  He  had  wrought  out  a  large 
phrase. 

"  I  guess,"  said  he,  "  that  covers  the  thing.  Ye  under 
stand,  don't  ye,  Yates,  about  the  privlidge  of  self-defence  ?" 

"  You  mean  that  I  may  defend  myself  if  I  can,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Yes.  With  the  privlidge  of  self-defence.  That's  fair, 
an'  I'd  give  it  to  a  painter.  Now  read  it  all  over." 

Jim  put  his  head  down  between  his  knees,  the  better  to 
measure  every  word,  while  Yates  read  the  complete  doc 
ument.  Then  Jim  took  the  paper,  and,  handing  it  to 
Benedict,  requested  him  to  see  if  it  had  been  read  cor 
rectly.  Assured  that  it  was  all  right,  Jim  turned  his  eyes 
eeverely  on  Yates,  and  said, — 

"  Sam  Yates,  do  ye  s'pose  ye've  any  idee  what  it  is  to 
be  licked  by  Jin?  Fenton  ?  Do  ye  know  what  ye're  sw'arin' 
to  ?  Do  ye  reelize  that  I  wouldn't  leave  enough  on  ye  to 
pay  for  havin'  a  funeral  ?" 

Yates  laughed,  and  said  that  he  believed  he  understood 
the  nature  of  an  oath. 


HOLLAND]  OUTWITTING  A  LAWYER.  325 

"  Then  sign  yer  Happy  David,"  said  Jim. 

Yates  wrote  his  name,  and  passed  the  paper  into  Jim's 
hands. 

"  Now,"  said  Jim,  with  an  expression  of  triumph  on  his 
face,  "  I  s'pose  ye  don't  know  that  ye've  been  settin'  on  a 
Bible ;  but  it's  right  under  ye,  in  that  chest,  and  it's  heam 
and  seen  the  whole  thing.  If  ye  don't  stand  by  yer 
Happy  David,  there'll  be  somethin'  worse  nor  Jim  Fenton 
arter  ye,  an'  when  that  comes  ye  can  jest  shet  yer  eyes 
and  gi'en  it  up." 

This  was  too  much  for  both  Yates  and  Benedict.  They 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes  and  burst  into  a  laugh.  But 
Jim  was  in  earnest,  and  not  a  smile  crossed  his  rough 
face. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  I  want  to  do  a  little  sw'arin'  myself, 
and  I  want  ye  to  write  it." 

Yates  resumed  his  pen,  and  declared  himself  to  be  in 
readiness. 

"  I  solem-ny  sw'ar,"  Jim  began,  "  s'welp  me !  that  I 
will  lick  Sam  Yates — as  is  a  lawyer — with  the  privlidge 
of  self-defence — if  he  ever  blows  on  Benedict — as  is  not  a 
pauper — no  more  nor  Jim  Fenton  is — an'  I  solem-ny 
sw'ar,  s'welp  me !  that  I'll  foller  'im  till  I  find  'im,  an'  lick 
'im — with  the  privlidge  of  self-defence." 

Jim  would  have  been  glad  to  work  in  the  last  phrase 
again,  but  he  seemed  to  have  covered  the  whole  ground, 
and  so  inquired  whether  Yates  had  got  it  all  down. 

Yates  replied  that  he  had. 

"  I'm  a-goin'  to  sign  that,  an'  ye  can  take  it  along  with 
ye.  Swap  seats." 

Yates  rose,  and  Jim  seated  himself  upon  the  chest. 

"  I'm  a-goin'  to  sign  this,  settin'  over  the  Bible.  I  ain't 
goin'  to  take  no  advantage  on  ye.  Now  we're  squar'," 
said  he,  as  he  blazoned  the  document  with  his  coarse  and 
ii  28 


326  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [BtraRirr 

clumsy  sign-manual.  "  Put  that  in  yer  pocket,  an'  keep 
it  for  five  year." 

"  Is  the  business  all  settled  ?"  inquired  Yates. 

"  Clean,"  replied  Jim. 

"When  am  I  to  have  the  liberty  to  go  out  of  the 
woods  ?" 

"Ye  ain't  goin*  out  o'  the  woods  for  a  fortnight.  Ye're 
a-goin'  to  stay  here,  an'  have  the  best  fishin'  ye  ever  had 
in  yer  life.  It'll  do  ye  good,  an'  ye  can  go  out  when  yer 
man  comes  arter  ye.  Ye  can  stay  to  the  raisin,'  an'  gi'en 
us  a  little  lift  with  the  other  fellers  that's  coniin'.  Ye'll 
be  as  strong  as  a  boss  when  ye  go  out." 

An  announcement  more  welcome  than  this  could  not 
have  been  made  to  Sam  Yates ;  and,  now  that  there  was 
no  secrecy  between  them,  and  confidence  was  restored,  he 
looked  forward  to  a  fortnight  of  enjoyment.  He  laid 
aside  his  coat,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  reduced  his  dress  to 
the  requirements  of  camp  life.  Jim  and  Mr.  Benedict 
were  very  busy,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  find  his  way 
alone,  but  Jim  lent  him  his  fishing-tackle,  and  taught  him 
how  to  use  it ;  and,  as  he  was  an  apt  pupil,  he  was  soon 
able  to  furnish  more  fish  to  the  camp  than  could  be  used. 


WHY  I  LEFT  THE  ANVIL. 

ELIHU  BUEEITT. 

[Elihu  Burritt,  the  "  Learned  Blacksmith"  of  New  England,  is  one 
of  the  several  instances  on  record  in  which  determined  study  has  over 
come  the  most  discouraging  obstacles.  In  his  early  life,  while  work 
ing  for  his  bread  at  the  anvil,  he  pursued  the  study  of  language  in  the 
intervals  of  his  labor,  and  by  earnest  application  succeeded  in  learning 
numerous  tongues.  He  became  widely  known  for  his  linguistic  ac 
quirements,  and  applied  himself  to  literature,  writing  "Sparks  from 


BURRITT]  WHY  I  LEFT  THE  ANVIL,  327 

the  Anvil,"  "  Thoughts  at  Home  and  Abroad,"  and  several  other  works. 
His  writings  are  not  very  exact  in  thought  and  style,  yet  are  written 
with  a  degree  of  enthusiasm,  and  possess  a  fair  share  of  merit,  if  we 
consider  the  circumstances  of  their  production.  The  author  was  born 
in  Connecticut  in  1810.  He  died  in  1879.] 

I  SEE  it ;  you  would  ask  me  what  I  have  to  say  for  my 
self  for  dropping  the  hammer  and  taking  up  the  quill,  as 
a  member  of  your  profession.  I  will  be  honest  now,  and 
tell  you  the  whole  story.  I  was  transposed  from  the  anvil 
to  the  editor's  chair  by  the  genius  of  machinery.  Don't 
smile,  friends:  it  was  even  so.  I  had  stood  and  looked 
for  hours  on  those  thoughtless  iron  intellects,  those  iron- 
fingered,  sober,  supple  automatons,  as  they  caught  up  a 
bale  of  cotton,  and  twirled  it  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
into  a  whirlwind  of  whizzing  shreds,  and  laid  it  at  my 
feet  in  folds  of  snow-white  cloth,  ready  for  the  use  of  our 
most  voluptuous  antipodes.  They  were  wonderful  things, 
these  looms  and  spindles ;  but  they  could  not  spin  thoughts ; 
there  was  no  attribute  of  divinity  in  them,  and  I  admired 
them,  nothing  more.  They  were  excessively  curious,  but 
I  could  estimate  the  whole  compass  of  their  doings  and 
destiny  in  finger-power :  so  I  came  away,  and  left  them 
spinning — cotton. 

One  day  I  was  tuning  my  anvil  beneath  a  hot  iron, 
and  busy  with  the  thought  that  there  was  as  much  intel 
lectual  philosophy  in  my  hammer  as  any  of  the  enginery 
a-going  in  modern  times,  when  a  most  unearthly  scream 
ing  pierced  my  ears.  I  stepped  to  the  door,  and  there  it 
was,  the  great  Iron  Horse !  Yes,  he  had  come,  looking 
for  all  the  world  like  the  great  Dragon  we  read  of  in 
Scripture,  harnessed  to  half  a  living  world  and  just  landed 
on  the  earth,  where  he  stood  braying  in  surprise  and  in 
dignation  at  the  "  base  use"  to  which  he  had  been  turned. 
I  saw  the  gigantic  hexaped  move  with  a  power  that  made 


328  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [BtnwiTT 

the  earth  tremble  for  miles.  I  saw  the  army  of  human 
beings  gliding  with  the  velocity  of  the  wind  over  the  iron 
track,  and  droves  of  cattle  travelling  in  their  stables  at 
the  rate  of  twenty  miles  an  hour  toward  their  city 
Blaughter-house.  It  was  wonderful.  The  little  busy-bee 
machinery  of  the  cotton-factory  dwindled  into  insignifi 
cance  before  it.  Monstrous  beast  of  passage  and  burden ! 
it  devoured  the  intervening  distance  and  welded  the  cities 
together!  But  for  its  furnace  heart  and  iron  sinews  it 
was  nothing  but  a  beast,  an  enormous  aggregation  of 
horse-power.  And  I  went  back  to  the  forge  with  unim 
paired  reverence  for  the  intellectual  philosophy  of  my 
hammer. 

Passing  along  the  street  one  afternoon,  I  heard  a  noise 
in  an  old  building,  as  of  some  one  puffing  a  pair  of  bellows. 
So,  without  more  ado,  I  stepped  in,  and  there,  in  the  cor 
ner  of  a  room,  I  saw  the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  all  the  machinery 
that  has  ever  been  invented  since  the  birth  of  Tubal  Cain. 
In  its  construction  it  was  as  simple  and  unassuming  as  a 
cheese-press.  It  went  with  a  lever, — with  a  lever  longer, 
stronger,  than  that  with  which  Archimedes  promised  to 
lift  the  world. 

"  It  is  a  printing-press,"  said  a  boy  standing  by  the  ink- 
trough  with  a  queueless  turban  of  brown  paper  on  his 
head.  "  A  printing-press  1"  I  queried  musingly  to  myself. 
"  A  printing-press  ?  What  do  you  print  ?"  I  asked. 
"Print?"  said  the  boy,  staring  at  me  doubtfully:  "why, 
we  print  thoughts."  "  Print  thoughts  ?"  I  slowly  re 
peated  after  him ;  and  we  stood  looking  at  each  other  in 
mutual  admiration,  he  in  the  absence  of  an  idea,  J  in  the 
pursuit  of  one.  But  I  looked  at  him  the  hardest,  and  he 
left  another  ink-mark  on  his  forehead  from  a  pathetic 
motion  of  his  left  hand  to  quicken  the  apprehension  of 
my  meaning.  "Why,  yes,"  he  reiterated,  in  a  tone  of 


BTJRRITT]  WHY  I  LEFT  THE  ANVIL.  329 

forced  confidence,  as  if  passing  an  idea  which,  though 
having  been  current  a  hundred  years,  might  still  be  coun 
terfeit,  for  all  he  could  show  on  the  spot,  "  we  print 
thoughts,  to  be  sure."  "  But,  my  boy,"  I  asked,  in  honest 
soberness,  "what  are  thoughts?  and  how  can  you  get 
hold  of  them  to  print  them  ?"  "  Thoughts  are  what  come 
out  of  people's  minds,"  he  replied.  "Get  hold  of  them, 
indeed  ?  Why,  minds  aren't  nothing  you  can  get  hold  of, 
nor  thoughts  either.  All  the  minds  that  ever  thought, 
and  all  the  thoughts  that  minds  ever  made,  wouldn't  make 
a  ball  as  big  as  your  fist.  Minds,  they  say,  are  just  like 
air;  you  can't  see  them;  they  don't  make  any  noise,  nor 
have  any  color ;  they  don't  weigh  anything.  Bill  Deep- 
cut,  the  sexton,  says  that  a  man  weighs  just  as  much  when 
his  mind  has  gone  out  of  him  as  he  did  before. — No,  sir,  all 
the  minds  that  ever  lived  wouldn't  weigh  an  ounce  Troy." 

"  Then  how  do  you  print  thoughts  ?"  I  asked.  "  If 
minds  are  as  thin  as  air,  and  thoughts  thinner  still,  and 
make  no  noise,  and  have  no  substance,  shade,  or  color, 
and  are  like  the  winds,  and  more  than  the  winds,  any 
where  in  a  moment, — sometimes  in  heaven,  sometimes  on 
earth,  and  the  waters  under  the  earth, — how  can  you  get 
hold  of  them?  how  can  you  see  them  when  caught,  or 
show  them  to  others  ?" 

Ezekiel's  eyes  grew  luminous  with  a  new  idea,  and, 
pushing  his  ink-roller  proudly  across  the  metallic  page  of 
the  newspaper,  he  replied,  "  Thoughts  work  and  walk  in 
things  that  make  tracks;  and  we  take  them  tracks  and 
stamp  them  on  paper,  or  iron,  or  wood,  or  stone,  or  what 
not.  This  is  the  way  we  print  thoughts.  Don't  you 
understand  ?" 

The  pressman  let  go  the  lever  and  looked  interrogatively 
at  Ezekiel,  beginning  at  the  patch  on  his  stringless  bro- 
gans,  and  following  up  with  his  eye  to  the  top  of  the  boy's 
ii.  28* 


330  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [BuRiurr 

brown-paper  buff  cap.  Ezekiel  comprehended  the  felicity 
of  his  illustration,  and,  wiping  his  hands  on  his  tow  apron, 
gradually  assumed  an  attitude  of  earnest  exposition.  I 
gave  him  an  encouraging  wink,  and  so  he  went  on. 

"Thoughts  make  tracks,"  he  continued,  impressively, 
as  if  evolving  a  new  phase  of  the  idea  by  repeating  it 
slowly.  Seeing  we  assented  to  this  proposition  inquir 
ingly,  he  stepped  to  the  type-case,  with  his  eye  fixed 
admonishingly  upon  us.  "  Thoughts  make  tracks,"  ho 
repeated,  arranging  in  his  left  hand  a  score  or  two  of 
metal  slips,  "  and  with  these  here  letters  we  can  take  the 
exact  impression  of  every  thought  that  ever  went  out  of 
the  heart  of  a  human  man ;  and  we  can  print  it,  too," 
giving  the  inked  form  a  blow  of  triumph  with  his  fist; 
"  we  can  print  it,  too,  give  us  paper  and  ink  enough,  till 
the  great  round  earth  is  blanketed  around  with  a  coverlid 
of  thoughts,  as  much  like  the  pattern  as  two  peas." 
Ezekiel  seemed  to  grow  an  inch  with  every  word,  and  the 
brawny  pressman  looked  first  at  him,  and  then  at  the 
press,  with  evident  astonishment.  "  Talk  about  the  mind's 
living  forever  I"  exclaimed  the  boy,  pointing  patronizingly 
at  the  ground,  as  if  mind  was  lying  there  incapable  of 
immortality  until  the  printer  reached  it  a  helping  hand ; 
"  why,  the  world  is  brimful  of  live,  bright,  industrious 
thoughts,  which  would  have  been  dead,  as  dead  as  stone, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  boys  like  me  who  have  run  the  ink- 
rollers.  Immortality,  indeed  I  why,  people's  minds,"  he 
continued,  with  his  imagination  climbing  into  the  pro 
fanely  sublime,  "  people's  minds  wouldn't  be  immortal  if 
it  wasn't  for  the  printers, — at  any  rate  in  this  here  plan 
etary  burying-ground.  We  are  the  chaps  what  manufac 
ture  immortality  for  dead  men,"  he  subjoined,  slapping  the 
pressman  graciously  on  the  shoulder.  The  latter  took  it 
as  if  dubbed  a  knight  of  the  legion  of  honor,  for  the  boy 


WOOLSEY]      OUR  DEBT  TO   OUR  ANCESTORS.  331 

had  put  the  mysteries  of  his  profession  in  sublime  apoca 
lypse.  "  Give  us  one  good  healthy  mind,"  resumed  Ezekiel, 
"  to  think  for  us,  and  we  will  furnish  a  dozen  worlds  as 
big  as  this  with  thoughts  to  order.  Give  us  such  a  man, 
and  we  will  insure  his  life ;  we  will  keep  him  alive  forever 
among  the  living.  He  can't  die,  no  way  you  can  fix  it, 
when  we  once  have  touched  him  with  these  here  bits  of 
inky  pewter.  He  shan't  die  nor  sleep.  We  will  keep  his 
mind  at  work  on  all  the  minds  that  live  on  the  earth,  and 
all  the  minds  that  shall  come  to  live  here  as  long  as  the 
world  stands." 

"Ezekiel,"  I  asked,  in  a  subdued  tone  of  reverence, 
"  will  you  print  my  thoughts,  too  ?" 

"Yes,  that  I  will,"  he  replied,  "if  you  will  think  some 
of  the  right  kind." 

"Yes,  that  we  will,"  echoed  the  pressman. 

And  I  went  home  and  thought,  and  Ezekiel  has  printed 
my  "  thought-tracks"  ever  since. 


OUR  DEBT  TO  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

T.  D.  WOOLSEY. 

[Theodore  Dwight  Woolsey  was  born  in  New  York  City  in  1801. 
He  early  became  eminent  as  a  Greek  scholar,  and  filled  the  position  of 
professor  of  Greek  language  and  literature  in  Yale  College  from  1831 
to  1846.  He  was  then  elected  president  of  the  college,  which  post  he 
held,  with  high  distinction,  till  his  resignation  in  1871.  He  is  the 
author  of  several  text-books  on  the  Greek  classics,  and  of  other  valua 
ble  works.  Our  extract  is  from  "  The  Eeligion  of  the  Past  and  the 
Future,"  a  volume  of  excellently-written  theological  addresses.] 

IN  any  case,  a  principle  of  the  widest  application  is 
brought  before  us, — that  no  individual,  in  the  strictest 


332  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [WOOLSKT 

sense,  begins  his  own  work ;  that  all  enter  into  and  carry 
out  the  labors  of  others ;  and  so,  too,  that  all  the  genera 
tions  of  the  world  reap  the  fields  their  forefathers  sowed; 
that  there  is  a  dependence,  a  succession,  in  all  the  labors 
of  men,  a  running  account  kept  up  by  each  present  age  to 
the  credit  of  the  whole  past,  and  especially  to  the  credit 
of  its  immediate  predecessors. 

This  is  indeed  a  characteristic  of  man  in  which  he  differs 
almost  wholly  from  the  best-endowed  animals.  They,  in 
their  successive  generations,  reach  the  same  point  of 
maturity,  act  out  the  characters  of  their  races  to  about 
the  same  degree  of  perfection,  and  die  without  advancing 
their  kind  or  leaving  any  new  store  of  power  or  enjoy 
ment  to  their  posterity.  If  man,  by  taming  and  training 
them,  can  in  a  degree  improve  their  breeds,  even  his  action 
has  the  least  effect  upon  their  races  as  wholes.  The  indi 
viduals  may  be  more  graceful,  or  strong,  or  useful ;  but  no 
quality  of  self-improvement  has  entered  into  the  species. 
Man,  on  the  other  hand,  the  feeblest  of  creatures  at  his 
birth  and  the  most  dependent,  is  able  to  retain,  transmit, 
record,  and  plan ;  by  his  social  and  moral  instincts  he 
forms  commonwealths  and  makes  laws;  he  learns  from 
others ;  he  communicates  to  others ;  he  trains  the  young 
members  of  the  community  up  to  the  measure  of  its 
knowledge  and  wisdom;  he  invents  and  spreads  inven 
tions  ;  he  thus  builds  a  tower  of  one  platform  upon  an 
other,  reaching  toward  the  skies,  from  which,  as  its  stories 
ascend,  he  holds  nearer  converse  with  heaven  and  casts 
his  eye  over  ampler  spaces  of  earth. 

Now,  for  all  this  the  labor  of  one  generation  will  not 
suffice ;  but  there  must  be  constant,  world- wide  work  and 
transmission.  Human  progress  consists  in  this :  that  men 
have  labored  with  body,  with  mind,  and  each  next  age 
Las  entered  into  their  labors.  It  is  possible,  indeed,  for  a 


WOOLSKY]      OUR  DEBT  TO   OUR  ANCESTORS.  333 

generation  to  send  nothing  of  value  down  the  stream  of 
time :  nay,  it  may  obliterate  or  corrupt,  and  so  put  its 
successors  into  a  worse  position  than  if  it  had  not  existed. 
Such  retrograde  movements  show  that  the  law  of  prog 
ress  is  not  a  fatal  one,  nor  dependent  solely  on  the  stores 
of  knowledge  that  have  been  laid  up ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  is  no  other  law  of  progress  aside  from  this 
which  we  have  before  us:  that  each  generation,  by  the 
help  of  its  predecessors'  toil  handed  down  and  retained, 
adds  something  to  the  general  stock  for  the  benefit  of 
coming  ages.  Nor  does  God,  when  He  intervenes  in 
human  history  by  supernatural  revelations,  disturb  this 
law,  for  forthwith  the  truth,  the  power,  the  moral  ad 
vancement,  are  leaven  thrown  into  an  age  or  a  people,  or 
possibly  into  a  single  mind,  to  leaven  the  whole  world 
afterward  by  the  same  process  by  which  human  improve 
ments  produce  their  effect.  And  we  ought  not  to  separate 
progress  from  G-od,  as  some  do,  for  He  is  in  it  all,  whether 
it  springs  directly  from  something  done  by  man,  or  from 
His  own  revelation.  He  is  in  all  invention  ;  in  all  learn 
ing  and  science  the  plan  throughout  is  His.  Bezaleel, 
the  ingenious  artificer  of  the  tabernacle,  was  animated  by 
His  spirit;  and  so  all  genius,  all  power,  that  starts  the 
world  forward,  is  as  truly  a  part  of  His  world-plan  as  is 
the  Christian  scheme  of  redemption. 

I.  Let  us  consider,  in  some  of  its  particulars,  this  plan 
of  God  for  the  human  race, — that  each  generation  enters 
into  the  labors  of  its  predecessors,  reaping  what  they 
have  sown,  while  at  the  same  time,  if  it  is  true  to  its  ap 
pointed  work,  it  hands  over  something  more  to  posterity 
than  it  had  received.  Reflect,  then,  first  on  the  labors 
which  the  teachers  of  mankind  have  undergone  in  order  that 
the  world  might  reach  its  present  state  of  advancement. 
The  class  of  teachers  may  be  divided  into  two  portions, 


334  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [WooLSET 

— into  such  as  transmit  only  and  such  as  also  originate. 
The  first  act  directly  on  those  who  are  just  following 
them  in  the  order  of  time  ;  the  others  have  a  much  wider 
field  of  direct  action ;  they  are  the  teachers  of  all  time, 
the  "  masters  of  all  who  know."  To  few  is  it  given,  out 
of  the  whole  human  race,  thus  to  act  over  many  ages 
and  through  many  lands.  The  greatest  portion  either 
move  the  thought  of  their  own  times  in  new  channels, 
or,  in  a  more  humble  office  still,  simply  make  known  to 
others  what  they  themselves  have  learned.  Yet  all  these 
teachers  have  labored,  and  men  are  entered  into  their 
labors.  They  have  labored  hard  and  long.  Men,  as  they 
enjoy  a  work  of  art  or  give  themselves  to  the  study  of  a 
work  of  philosophy,  must  not  suppose  that  everything 
flowed  smoothly  when  the  composition  was  going  on,  or 
that  there  were  no  difficulties  in  the  preparation.  "  He 
that  goeth  forth  weeping,  bearing  precious  seed,"  is  the  fit 
motto  for  all  who  have  employed  their  minds  for  the 
benefit  of  mankind.  What  agony  of  mind  have  inventors 
endured,  what  anxiety  and  heart-sickness,  what  unfruit 
ful  experiments,  reaching  through  long  years,  have  they 
tried,  before  success  crowned  their  efforts !  The  same  is 
true  of  any  work  of  art  which  has  long  kept  its  place  in 
the  heart  of  a  nation  or  of  the  world.  A  work  of  genius 
is  the  essence,  it  may  be,  of  a  whole  life,  the  condensed 
knowledge,  judgment,  skill,  that  make  up  the  man.  So, 
too,  in  all  the  sciences,  as  in  the  philosophy  of  thought  or 
of  morals,  what  perplexities  has  a  mind  contended  with, 
what  hope  and  patience  has  it  spent,  what  weighings  of 
evidence,  what  reflection,  what  consultation,  have  been 
needed,  before  the  painful  work  of  composition  began !  It 
must  not  be  supposed  that  glimpses  of  truth  are  vouch 
safed  to  those  that  skim  over  the  surface  of  things  in  the 
spirit  of  curiosity  or  amusement;  nor  that  inventions 


WOOLSET]      OUR  DEBT  TO  OUR  ANCESTORS.  335 

enter  vacant  minds  unsought  and  in  full  perfection ;  nor 
that  to  the  great  poet  or  painter  even  the  labor  of  compo 
sition  or  correction,  severe  as  it  is,  at  all  compares  with 
that  preparatory  thought  and  work  on  which  the  whole 
achievement  depended. 

So,  also,  the  other  class  of  teachers,  whose  office  it  is  to 
put  knowledge  derived  from  others  into  form,  and  to  train 
the  minds  of  their  generations, — they  too  have  labored 
long  and  earnestly  in  order  to  fit  themselves  for  their 
work.  The  conscientious  instructor  has  gone  through 
three  series  of  toils:  he  has  labored  hard  to  learn  as  he 
would  have  his  scholars  labor,  he  has  qualified  himself  by 
still  severer  toil  for  his  special  duty,  and  then  comes  the 
new  office  of  imparting  and  guiding  from  day  to  day, — the 
hardest  labor  of  all,  because  the  fruits  of  it  do  not  at  once 
appear. 

Now,  into  the  labors  of  these  classes  of  teachers  and 
trainers  each  new  generation  of  the  educated  enters.  You, 
my  friends,  are  debtors  to  the  past,  and,  indeed,  to  the 
remote  past.  For  you  Aristotle  thought  his  best  thoughts, 
though  they  may  have  taken  new  shapes  before  they 
reached  your  minds;  for  you  the  Greek  poets  and  the 
English  of  high  renown  have  sung  their  strains ;  for  you 
art  has  brought  to  light  its  treasures ;  for  you  discoverers 
have  ventured  into  untrodden  seas ;  a  thousand  forgotten 
names  have  lived  and  wrought  for  your  benefit,  without 
whom,  it  may  be,  society  would  have  been  far  behind  its 
present  point  of  advancement.  For  you,  too,  the  teacher 
of  the  present  has  spent  the  best  hours  of  his  life,  has 
thought  his  best  thought,  has  patiently  drilled  and  incul 
cated,  that  you  may  enter  into  his  labors  and  may,  if  you 
will,  go  beyond  him  in  cultivation  and  in  wisdom.  Small, 
perhaps,  is  the  proficiency  which  you  may  have  seemed 
to  yourselves  to  have  made  under  his  training,  for  the 


336  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [WOOLSET 

natural  and  one  of  the  best  fruits  of  a  true  education  is  to 
reveal  to  us  how  little  we  know,  and  how  far  we  are  from 
the  heights  of  perfect  science.  But  perhaps  in  the  years 
to  come,  even  although  the  knowledge  and  power  gained 
here  may  be  indistinguishable  from  that  which  other  mas 
ters  or  yourselves  have  procured  for  you,  you  will  grate 
fully  attribute  something  of  your  culture  and  something 
of  your  success  to  those  who  have  labored  for  you  here. 
They  will  then,  perhaps,  be  beyond  the  reach  of  your 
acknowledgments ;  they  may  be  little  conscious  of  what 
they  have  done  for  you ;  they  can  see  but  little  fruit,  of 
course,  from  the  toils  of  each  faithfully-spent  day ;  but  if 
it  should  appear  that  some  good  thought  of  theirs  was 
fruitful  in  your  minds,  some  ideal  of  patient,  finished 
scholarship  was  awakened  within  you,  some  solid  prep 
aration  was  given  you  for  the  work  of  a  true  life,  then 
will  they  deserve  to  be  remembered,  and  you  will  be  called 
by  such  remembrances  to  hand  down  what  they  have  im 
parted,  and  whatever  else  you  shall  have  gained  by  your 
own  labor,  to  the  next  generation. 

II.  Other  men  have  labored  in  the  practical  spheres  of 
life,  and  we  are  entered  into  their  labors.  Here  there 
arise  before  us  all  who  have  labored  for  the  social,  politi 
cal,  moral,  religious  welfare  of  man,  from  the  mother,  into 
whose  hands  all  the  tender  beginnings  of  practical  life  are 
committed,  through  every  faithful  teacher  and  faithful 
example,  up  to  the  founders  of  states,  and  the  founders 
of  religion, — up,  even,  to  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  Himself. 

It  is  to  be  observed  in  regard  to  these  laborers  both 
that  their  work  is  of  all  importance  and  that  it  is  neces 
sary  for  the  success  of  those  other  laborers  who  work  in 
the  fields  of  science.  For  life  is  more  than  thought,  and 
without  a  well-ordered  life  there  can  be  little  progress  in 
thought.  Such  is  the  action  of  the  moral  nature  on  the 


WOOLSEY]      OUR  DEBT  TO   OUR  ANCESTORS. 

mind  that  a  bad  soul  is  unfitted  for  all  the  science  that  is 
directly  concerned  with  life ;  it  is  warped  and  blinded  by 
selfish  interests,  it  often  falls  into  doubt,  and  is  wanting 
in  those  higher  impulses  which  are  of  such  aid  in  in 
tellectual  pursuits.  Nor  is  the  sway  of  society  over  the 
individual  less  marked.  A  corrupt  society,  a  vicious  gov 
ernment,  are  uncivilizing  agents  of  the  greatest  power, 
not  merely  by  their  neglect  or  repression  of  what  is  good, 
but  by  their  sympathy  with  positive  evil.  And  above  all 
the  other  influences  rises  religion  in  its  power  to  ennoble 
or  to  degrade  the  soul,  to  fill  it  with  fear  and  falsehood, 
or  to  raise  it  to  a  communion  with  God  and  with  His 
thoughts. 

It  is  to  be  observed,  further,  in  regard  to  these  laborers 
in  the  vineyard  of  life,  that  their  work  never  ends.  The 
results  of  knowledge  stay  in  the  world,  but  society  and 
government  are  ever  changing ;  religion  at  one  time 
reigns,  at  another  is  conquered  by  doubt  or  vice,  so  that 
there  is  an  endless  struggle  here  between  the  powers  of 
corruption  and  the  powers  of  progress, — a  struggle  in 
which  the  interests  of  science  also  are  involved.  Had 
the  race  been  good  enough  to  have  retained  the  faint 
primeval  knowledge  and  faith  of  God, — had  it  been  able, 
by  reason  of  its  moral  strength,  to  have  instituted  every 
where  just  societies  and  governments,  in  sympathy  with 
all  truth  and  goodness, — centuries  ago,  without  question, 
the  point  of  advancement  which  we  have  now  reached 
would  have  been  left  out  of  sight,  and  a  state  of  mankind 
have  been  begun  of  which  we  only  dream  almost  without 
hope.  The  path  of  the  reformers,  civilizers,  purifiers,  has 
been  up-hill  against  reigning  corruptions,  against  the 
hankering  of  man  for  a  slothful,  unthinking  life  ;  in  short, 
against  that  lapse  of  souls  from  God  for  which  Christ 
furnishes  the  only  all-sufficient  remedy.  .  .  . 


338  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [WOOLSKI 

And  we  are  entered  into  their  labors.  Your  studies  of 
history,  my  young  friends,  will  have  taught  you  what 
thanks  you  owe  to  the  struggles  and  contests  of  good 
men  in  the  past,  nor  need  you  go  back  beyond  the  few 
last  years  for  one  of  the  most  striking  illustrations.  In 
order  that  a  reign  of  justice  in  our  land  should  be  secured, 
that  we  should  no  longer  be  the  reproach  of  the  civilized 
world,  as  a  nation  of  freemen  holding  four  millions  of 
slaves  in  perpetual  bondage  and  justifying  our  curse  as 
an  institution  of  God,  how  many  hundred  thousands  have 
given  up  their  lives  and  how  many  cries  of  mourners  have 
resounded  through  the  land !  We  have  gained  a  precious 
inheritance,  precious  at  its  beginning,  to  be  more  precious 
as  years  roll  on,  but  at  what  a  cost!  So  also  the  whole 
history  of  our  land  speaks  of  labor ;  of  labor  the  fruits  of 
which  we  are  now  enjoying.  The  toil  and  agony  of  mind 
which  the  first  pilgrims  endured  in  their  separation  from 
their  homes,  in  their  contests  with  the  wild  men  and  the 
wilderness,  in  their  want  and  uncertainty ;  the  struggles 
and  sacrifices  of  the  Eevolution, — easily  read  on  a  few 
pages  of  history,  but  hard  enough  to  bear, — these  have 
sent  down  to  us  an  inheritance  more  precious  than  has 
fallen  to  any  other  people.  Or,  if  you  go  farther  back, 
and  read  the  record  of  each  important  addition  to  English 
history,  of  every  new  charter  or  petition  or  declaration 
of  right,  of  every  resistance  against  tyranny  and  every 
bulwark  of  freedom,  remember  that  each  of  these  had  its 
contest,  its  patience,  and  that  your  acknowledged  rights 
of  speech,  of  worship,  of  secure  possession,  of  a  share  in 
the  commonwealth,  have  cost  many  lives  of  men  who 
have  left  no  name,  many  sorrows  of  the  unnoticed,  and 
that  thousands  have  been  preparing  the  way  for  your  era 
of  light  and  freedom.  Nor  are  the  labors  of  reformers  of 
less  moment.  You  are  in  a  better  state  of  society  than 


TICLNOR]  DON  QUIXOTE.  339 

fell  to  the  lot  of  your  fathers,  because  divinely-gifted  men 
saw  what  were  the  evils  that  obstructed  human  progress, 
and  had  courage  and  patience  enough  to  oppose  them. 
Some  one  voice,  perhaps,  was  lifted  up  amid  derision  and 
persecution,  some  one  worked  on  hoping  against  hope,  and 
died  committing  his  cause  to  the  few  select  ones  who  were 
as  fearless  and  as  loving  as  he.  Then  by  slow  degrees  the 
stream  widened  and  became  a  resistless  flood  to  change 
the  face  of  society.  The  fruits  of  all  this  belong  to  you. 
But  you  could  not  have  these  fruits,  gathered  by  the 
patriot  and  the  reformer,  at  your  command,  unless  also  a 
higher  class  of  laborers  in  the  spiritual  field  had  co-oper 
ated  with  them  and  prepared  the  way  for  them.  The 
preacher  of  righteousness  and  the  martyr  were  the  fore 
runners  of  freedom  and  of  all  improvement  in  society. 
The  martyr  did  not  think,  perhaps,  when  he  expressed 
his  devotion  to  Christ  by  a  painful  death,  that  anything 
great  was  to  grow  out  of  it :  he  only  acted  out  what  he 
felt.  But  these  religious  laborers  have  changed  the  face 
of  the  world.  They  have  brought  into  literature  and  art 
new  ideas  of  purity  and  spirituality,  into  life  another 
standard  of  character,  by  which  all  truthfulness,  honor, 
justice,  and  benevolence  are  duly  valued 


DON  QUIXOTE. 

GEORGE  TICKNOK. 

[From  Ticknor's  excellent  "  History  of  Spanish  Literature"  we  ex 
tract  his  description  of  the  celebrated  Knight  of  La  Mancha,  as  a  very 
interesting  treatment  of  a  subject  of  great  literary  interest  and  impor 
tance.  The  history  named  is  a  work  of  high  value,  and  on  its  publica 
tion  at  once  gained  a  recognized  place  in  historical  literature.  It  La* 


340  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

been  highly  eulogized  by  eminent  critics  of  all  countries.  Mr.  Ticknor 
was  born  in  Boston  in  1791.  In  1863  he  published  a  valuable  "  Life 
of  William  H.  Prescott."  He  died  in  1871.] 

AT  the  very  beginning  of  the  work  ["  Don  Quixote"] 
he  [Cervantes]  announces  it  to  be  his  solo  purpose  to  break 
down  the  vogue  and  authority  of  books  of  chivalry,  and 
at  the  end  of  the  whole  he  declares  anew,  in  his  own 
person,  that  "  he  had  had  no  other  desire  than  to  render 
abhorred  of  men  the  false  and  absurd  stories  contained  in 
books  of  chivalry ;"  exulting  in  his  success,  as  an  achieve 
ment  of  no  small  moment.  And  such,  in  fact,  it  was ;  for 
we  have  abundant  proof  that  the  fanaticism  for  these 
romances  was  so  great  in  Spain  during  the  sixteenth 
century  as  to  have  become  matter  of  alarm  to  the  more 
judicious.  Many  of  the  distinguished  contemporary  au 
thors  speak  of  its  mischiefs,  and  among  the  rest  Fernandez 
de  Oviedo,  the  venerable  Luis  de  Granada,  Luis  de  Leon, 
Luis  Yives,  the  great  scholar,  and  Malon  de  Chaide,  who 
wrote  the  eloquent  "  Conversion  of  Mary  Magdalen." 
Guevara,  the  learned  and  fortunate  courtier  of  Charles 
the  Fifth,  declares  that  "men  did  read  nothing  in  his 
time  but  such  shameful  books  as  'Amadis  de  Gaula,' 
'Tristan,'  'Primaleon,'  and  the  like;"  the  acute  author 
of  "  The  Dialogue  on  Languages"  says  that  the  ten  years 
he  passed  at  court  he  wasted  in  studying  "  Florisando," 
"  Lisuarte,"  "  The  Knight  of  the  Cross,"  and  other  such 
books,  more  than  he  can  name ;  and  from  different  sources 
we  know,  what,  indeed,  we  may  gather  from  Cervantes 
himself,  that  many  who  read  these  fictions  took  them  for 
true  histories.  At  last  they  were  deemed  so  noxious 
that  in  1553  they  were  prohibited  by  law  from  being 
printed  or  sold  in  the  American  colonies,  and  in  1555  the 
Bame  prohibition,  and  even  the  burning  of  all  copies  of 
them  extant  in  Spain  itself,  was  earnestly  asked  for  by 


TICKNOR]  DON  QUIXOTE.  341 

the  Cortes.     The  evil,  in  fact,  had  become  formidable,  and 
the  wise  began  to  see  it. 

To  destroy  a  passion  that  had  struck  its  roots  so  deeply 
in  the  character  of  all  classes  of  men,  to  break  up  the 
only  reading  which  at  that  time  could  be  considered 
widely  popular  and  fashionable,  was  certainly  a  bold 
undertaking,  and  one  that  marks  anything  rather  than 
a  scornful  or  broken  spirit,  or  a  want  of  faith  in  what 
is  most  to  be  valued  in  our  common  nature.  The  great 
wonder  is,  that  Cervantes  succeeded.  But  that  he  did 
there  is  no  question.  No  book  of  chivalry  was  written 
after  the  appearance  of  Don  Quixote,  in  1605 ;  and  from 
the  same  date,  even  those  already  enjoying  the  greatest 
favor  ceased,  with  one  or  two  unimportant  exceptions,  to 
be  reprinted ;  so  that  from  that  time  to  the  present  they 
have  been  constantly  disappearing,  until  they  are  now 
among  the  rarest  of  literary  curiosities ; — a  solitary  in 
stance  of  the  power  of  genius  to  destroy  by  a  single 
well-timed  blow  an  entire  department,  and  that,  too,  a 
flourishing  and  favored  one,  in  the  literature  of  a  great 
and  proud  nation. 

The  general  plan  Cervantes  adopted  to  accomplish  this 
object,  without,  perhaps,  foreseeing  its  whole  course,  and 
still  less  all  its  results,  was  simple  as  well  as  original.  In 
1605  he  published  the  First  Part  of  Don  Quixote,  in 
which  a  country  gentleman  of  La  Mancha — full  of  genuine 
Castilian  honor  and  enthusiasm,  gentle  and  dignified  in 
his  character,  trusted  by  his  friends,  and  loved  by  his 
dependants — is  represented  as  so  completely  crazed  by 
long  reading  the  most  famous  books  of  chivalry  that  he 
believes  them  to  be  true,  and  feels  himself  called  on  to 
become  the  impossible  knight-errant  they  describe, — nay, 
actually  goes  forth  into  the  world  to  defend  the  oppressed 
and  avenge  the  injured,  like  the  heroes  of  his  romances. 
n.  29* 


342  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

To  complete  his  chivalrous  equipment, — which  he  had 
begun  by  fitting  up  for  himself  a  suit  of  armor  strange  to 
his  century, — he  took  an  esquire  out  of  his  neighborhood ; 
a  middle-aged  peasant,  ignorant  and  credulous  to  excess, 
but  of  great  good-nature ;  a  glutton  and  a  liar ;  selfish 
and  gross,  yet  attached  to  his  master;  shrewd  enough 
occasionally  to  see  the  folly  of  their  position,  but  always 
amusing,  and  sometimes  mischievous,  in  his  interpreta 
tions  of  it.  These  two  sally  forth  from  their  native  village 
in  search  of  adventures,  of  which  the  excited  imagination 
of  the  knight,  turning  windmills  into  giants,  solitary  inns 
into  castles,  and  galley-slaves  into  oppressed  gentlemen, 
finds  abundance  wherever  he  goes ;  while  the  esquire 
translates  them  all  into  the  plain  prose  of  truth  with  an 
admirable  simplicity  quite  unconscious  of  its  own  humor, 
and  rendered  the  more  striking  by  its  contrast  with  the 
lofty  and  courteous  dignity  and  magnificent  illusions  of 
the  superior  personage.  There  could,  of  course,  be  but 
one  consistent  termination  of  adventures  like  these.  The 
knight  and  his  esquire  suffer  a  series  of  ridiculous  discom 
fitures,  and  are  at  last  brought  home,  like  madmen,  to 
their  native  village,  where  Cervantes  leaves  them,  with 
an  intimation  that  the  story  of  their  adventures  is  by  no 
means  ended.  .  .  . 

The  latter  half  of  Don  Quixote  is  a  contradiction  of  the 
proverb  Cervantes  cites  in  it, — that  second  parts  were 
never  yet  good  for  much.  It  is,  in  fact,  better  than  the 
first.  It  shows  more  freedom  and  vigor;  and,  if  the 
caricature  is  sometimes  pushed  to  the  very  verge  of  what 
is  permitted,  the  invention,  the  style  of  thought,  and, 
indeed,  the  materials  throughout,  are  richer,  and  the 
finish  is  more  exact.  The  character  of  Sanson  Carrasco, 
for  instance,  is  a  very  happy,  though  somewhat  bold, 
addition  to  the  original  persons  of  the  drama;  and  the 


TICKNOR]  DON  QUIXOTE. 

adventures  at  the  castle  of  the  Duke  and  Duchess,  where 
Don  Quixote  is  fooled  to  the  top  of  his  bent ;  the  manage 
ments  of  Sancho  as  governor  of  his  island ;  the  visions 
and  dreams  of  the  cave  of  Montesinos ;  the  scenes  with 
Koque  G-uinart,  the  freebooter,  and  with  Gines  de  Pas- 
samonte,  the  galley-slave  and  puppet-show  man ;  together 
with  the  mock-heroic  hospitalities  of  Don  Antonio  Moreno 
at  Barcelona,  and  the  first  defeat  of  the  knight  there,  are 
all  admirable.  In  truth,  everything  in  this  Second  Part, 
especially  its  general  outline  and  tone,  shows  that  time 
and  a  degree  of  success  he  had  not  before  known  had 
ripened  and  perfected  the  strong  manly  sense  and  sure  in 
sight  into  human  nature  which  are  visible  in  nearly  all  his 
works,  and  which  here  become  a  part,  as  it  were,  of  his 
peculiar  genius,  whose  foundations  had  been  laid,  dark  and 
deep,  amidst  the  trials  and  sufferings  of  his  various  life. 

But  throughout  both  parts  Cervantes  shows  the  im 
pulses  and  instincts  of  an  original  power  with  most 
distinctness  in  his  development  of  the  characters  of  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho,  in  whose  fortunate  contrast  and 
opposition  is  hidden  the  full  spirit  of  his  peculiar  humor, 
and  no  small  part  of  what  is  most  effective  in  the  entire 
fiction.  They  are  his  prominent  personages.  He  delights, 
therefore,  to  have  them  as  much  as  possible  in  the  front 
of  his  scene.  They  grow  visibly  upon  his  favor  as  he 
advances,  and  the  fondness  of  his  liking  for  them  makes 
him  constantly  produce  them  in  lights  and  relations  as 
little  foreseen  by  himself  as  they  are  by  his  readers.  The 
knight,  who  seems  to  have  been  originally  intended  for  a 
parody  of  the  Amadis,  becomes  gradually  a  detached, 
separate,  and  wholly  independent  personage,  into  whom 
is  infused  so  much  of  a  generous  and  elevated  nature, 
such  gentleness  and  delicacy,  such  a  pure  sense  of  honor, 
and  such  a  warm  love  for  whatever  is  noble  and  good, 


344  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [TiCKNOR 

that  we  feel  almost  the  same  attachment  to  him  that  the 
barber  and  the  curate  did,  and  are  almost  as  ready  as  his 
family  was  to  mourn  over  his  death. 

The  case  of  Sancho  is,  again,  very  similar,  and  perhaps 
in  some  respects  stronger.  At  first  he  is  introduced  as 
the  opposite  of  Don  Quixote,  and  used  merely  to  bring 
out  his  master's  peculiarities  in  a  more  striking  relief.  It 
is  not  until  we  have  gone  through  nearly  half  of  the  First 
Part  that  he  utters  one  of  those  proverbs  which  form 
afterwards  the  staple  of  his  conversation  and  humor ;  and 
it  is  not  till  the  opening  of  the  Second  Part,  and,  indeed, 
not  till  he  comes  forth,  in  all  his  mingled  shrewdness  and 
credulity,  as  governor  of  Barataria,  that  his  character  is 
quite  developed  and  completed  to  the  full  measure  of  its 
grotesque  yet  congruous  proportions. 

Cervantes,  in  truth,  came  at  last  to  love  these  creations 
of  his  marvellous  power  as  if  they  were  real,  familiar  per 
sonages,  and  to  speak  of  them  and  treat  them  with  an 
earnestness  and  interest  that  tend  much  to  the  illusion 
of  his  readers.  Both  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  are  thus 
brought  before  us  like  such  living  realities  that  at  this 
moment  the  figures  of  the  crazed,  gaunt,  dignified  knight 
and  of  his  round,  selfish,  and  most  amusing  esquire  dwell 
bodied  forth  in  the  imaginations  of  more,  among  all  con 
ditions  of  men  throughout  Christendom,  than  any  other 
of  the  creations  of  human  talent.  The  greatest  of  the 
great  poets — Homer,  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Milton — have 
no  doubt  risen  to  loftier  heights,  and  placed  themselves  in 
more  imposing  relations  with  the  noblest  attributes  of 
our  nature;  but  Cervantes — always  writing  under  the 
unchecked  impulse  of  his  own  genius,  and  instinctively 
concentrating  in  his  fiction  whatever  was  peculiar  to  the 
character  of  his  nation — has  shown  himself  of  kindred  to 
all  times  and  all  lands;  to  the  humblest  degrees  of  culti- 


TICKNOR]  DON  qUIXOTE.  345 

vation  as  well  as  to  the  highest ;  and  has  thus,  beyond  all 
other  writers,  received  in  return  a  tribute  of  sympathy 
and  admiration  from  the  universal  spirit  of  humanity.  .  .  . 
The  romance,  however,  which  he  threw  so  carelessly 
from  him,  and  which,  I  am  persuaded,  he  regarded  rather 
as  a  bold  effort  to  break  up  the  absurd  taste  of  his  time 
for  the  fancies  of  chivalry  than  as  anything  of  more  seri 
ous  import,  has  been  established  by  an  uninterrupted  and, 
it  may  be  said,  an  unquestioned  success  ever  since,  both 
as  the  oldest  classical  specimen  of  romantic  fiction,  and  as 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  monuments  of  modern  genius. 
But,  though  this  may  be  enough  to  fill  the  measure  of 
human  fame  and  glory,  it  is  not  all  to  which  Cervantes  is 
entitled;  for,  if  we  would  do  him  the  justice  that  would 
have  been  most  welcome  to  his  own  spirit,  and  even  if  we 
would  ourselves  fully  comprehend  and  enjoy  the  whole  of 
his  Don  Quixote,  we  should,  as  we  read  it,  bear  in  mind 
that  this  delightful  romance  was  not  the  result  of  a  youth 
ful  exuberance  of  feeling  and  a  happy  external  condition, 
nor  composed  in  his  best  years,  when  the  spirits  of  its 
author  were  light  and  his  hopes  high ;  but  that — with  all 
its  unquenchable  and  irresistible  humor,  with  its  bright 
views  of  the  world,  and  its  cheerful  trust  in  goodness  and 
virtue — it  was  written  in  his  old  age,  at  the  conclusion  of 
a  life  nearly  every  step  of  which  had  been  marked  with 
disappointed  expectations,  disheartening  struggles,  and 
sore  calamities;  that  he  began  it  in  a  prison,  and  that 
it  was  finished  when  he  felt  the  hand  of  death  pressing 
heavy  and  cold  upon  his  heart.  If  this  be  remembered 
as  we  read,  we  may  feel,  as  we  ought  to  feel,  what  admira 
tion  and  reverence  are  due  not  only  to  the  living  power 
of  Don  Quixote,  but  to  the  character  and  genius  of  Cer 
vantes  ;  if  it  be  forgotten  or  underrated,  we  shall  fail  in 
regard  to  both. 


346  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [MiLLKB 

KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

[Cincinnatus  Heine  Miller,  who  has  adopted  the  nom-de-plume  above 
given,  was  born  in  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  in  1842.  His  life,  however,  is 
identified  with  the  Far  West,  and  his  poetry  is  the  embodiment  in 
verse  of  the  unconventional  pioneer  life.  He  accompanied  Walker 
in  his  buccaneering  invasion  of  Honduras  in  1860,  and  his  poetical 
description  of  this  expedition  has  many  beautiful  and  highly-animated 
passages.  The  poem  which  we  quote  below  seems  full  of  the  spirit  of 
the  wild  West,  and  the  terrors  of  a  prairie-fire  could  not  be  more 
graphically  delineated.] 

WE  lay  in  the  grasses  and  the  sunburnt  clover 
That  spread  on  the  ground  like  a  great  brown  cover 
Northward  and  southward,  and  west  and  away 
To  the  Brazos,  to  where  our  lodges  lay, 
One  broad  and  unbroken  sea  of  brown, 
Awaiting  the  curtains  of  night  to  come  down 
To  cover  us  over  and  conceal  our  flight 
With  my  brown  bride,  won  from  an  Indian  town 
That  lay  in  the  rear  the  full  ride  of  a  night. 

We  lay  low  in  the  grass  on  the  broad  plain  levels, 

Old  Bevels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brown  bride ; 

And  the  heavens  of  blue  and  the  harvest  of  brown 

And  beautiful  clover  were  welded  as  one, 

To  the  right  and  the  left,  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 

"  Forty  full  miles,  if  a  foot,  to  ride, 

Forty  full  miles,  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 

Of  red  Comanches  are  hot  on  the  track 

When  once  they  strike  it.    Let  the  sun  go  down 

Soon,  very  soon,"  muttered  bearded  old  Bevels, 

As  he  peered  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his  back, 


MILLER]  KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE.  347 

Holding  fast  to  his  lasso.     Then  he  jerked  at  his  steed, 

And  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  glanced  swiftly  around, 

And  then  dropped,  as  if  shot,  with  his  ear  to  the  ground ; 

Then  again  to  his  feet,  and  to  me,  to  my  bride, 

While  his  eyes  were  like  fire,  his  face  like  a  shroud, 

His  form  like  a  king,  and  his  beard  like  a  cloud, 

And  his  voice  loud  and  shrill,  as  if  blown  from  a  reed, — 

"  Pull,  pull  in  your  lassos,  and  bridle  to  steed, 

And  speed  you,  if  ever  for  life  you  would  speed, 

And  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you  must  ride  1 

For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire, 

And  feet  of  wild  horses  hard  flying  before 

I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  high  on  the  shore, 

While  the  buifalo  come  like  a  surge  of  the  sea, 

Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on  us  three, 

As  a  hurricane  comes,  crushing  palms  in  his  ire." 

We  drew  in  the  lassos,  seized  saddle  and  rein, 
Threw  them  on,  sinched  them  on,  sinched  them  over  again, 
And  again  drew  the  girth,  cast  aside  the  macheers, 
Cut  away  tapidaros,  loosed  the  sash  from  its  fold, 
Cast  aside  the  catenas  red-spangled  with  gold, 
And  gold-mounted  Colt's,  the  companions  of  years, 
Cast  the  silken  serapes  to  the  wind  in  a  breath, 
And  so  bared  to  the  skin  sprang  all  haste  to  the  horse, — 
As  bare  as  when  born,  as  when  new  from  the  hand 
Of  God, — without  word,  or  one  word  of  command  ; 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  in  a  red  race  with  death, 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  breath  in  the  hair 
Blowing  hot  from  a  king  leaving  death  in  his  course  ; 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  sound  in  the  air 
Like  the  rush  of  an  army,  and  a  flash  in  the  eye 
Of  a  red  wall  of  fire  reaching  up  to  the  sky, 
Stretching  fierce  in  pursuit  of  a  black  rolling  sea 


348  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [MiLLKR 

Bushing  fast  upon  us,  as  the  wind  sweeping  free 
And  afar  from  the  desert  blew  hollow  and  hoarse. 

Not  a  word,  not  a  wail  from  a  lip  was  let  fall, 

Not  a  kiss  from  my  bride,  not  a  look  nor  low  call 

Of  love-note  or  courage ;  but  on  o'er  the  plain 

So  steady  and  still,  leaning  low  to  the  mane, 

With  the  heel  to  the  flank  and  the  hand  to  the  rein, 

Rode  we  on,  rode  we  three,  rode  we  nose  and  gray  nose, 

Reaching  long,  breathing  loud,  as  a  creviced  wind  blows: 

Yet  we  broke  not  a  whisper,  we  breathed  not  a  prayer, 

There  was  work  to  be  done,  there  was  death  in  the  air, 

And  the  chance  was  as  one  to  a  thousand  for  all. 

Gray  nose  to  gray  nose,  and  each  steady  mustang 

Stretched  neck  and  stretched  nerve  till  the  arid  earth  rang. 

And  the  foam  from  the  flank  and  the  croup  and  the  neck 

Flew  around  like  the  spray  on  a  storm-driven  deck. 

Twenty  miles !  .  .  .  thirty  miles  ...  a  dim  distant  speck  .  .  . 

Then  a  long  reaching  line,  and  the  Brazos  in  sight, 

And  I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of  delight. 

I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  looked  to  my  right, — 

But  Revels  was  gone ;  I  glanced  by  my  shoulder 

And  saw  his  horse  stagger ;  I  saw  his  head  drooping 

Hard  down  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked  breast  stooping 

Low  down  to  the  mane,  as  so  swifter  and  bolder 

Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 

To  right  and  to  left  the  black  buffalo  came, 

A  terrible  surf  on  a  red  sea  of  flame 

Rushing  on  in  the  rear,  reaching  high,  reaching  higher. 

And  he  rode  neck  to  neck  to  a  buffalo  bull, 

The  monarch  of  millions,  with  shaggy  mane  full 

Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with  desire 

Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bellowings  loud 


MILLER]  KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE.  349 

And  unearthly,  and  up  through  its  lowering  cloud 

Came  the  flash  of  his  eyes  like  a  half-hidden  fire, 

While  his  keen  crooked  horns,  through  the  storm  of  his 

mane, 

Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again ; 
And  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire  licked  through, 
And  he  fell  and  was  lost,  as  we  rode  two  and  two. 

I  looked  to  my  left  then, — and  nose,  neck,  and  shoulder 
Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back  to  my  thighs ; 
And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of  her  hair 
Bid  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvellous  eyes, 
With  a  longing  and  love,  yet  a  look  of  despair 
A  nd  of  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke  fold  her, 
And  flames  reaching  far  for  her  glorious  hair. 
Her  sinking  steed  faltered,  his  eager  eyes  fell 
To  and  fro  and  unsteady,  and  all  the  neck's  swell 
Did  subside  and  recede,  and  the  nerves  fall  as  dead. 
Then  she  saw  sturdy  Pache  still  lorded  his  head, 
With  a  look  of  delight ;  for  nor  courage  nor  bribe, 
Nor  naught  but  my  bride,  could  have  brought  him  to  me. 
For  he  was  her  father's,  and  at  South  Santafee 
Had  once  won  a  whole  herd,  sweeping  everything  down 
In  a  race  where  the  world  came  to  run  for  the  crown. 
And  so  when  I  won  the  true  heart  of  my  bride — 
My  neighbor's  and  deadliest  enemy's  child, 
And  child  of  the  kingly  war-chief  of  his  tribe — 
She  brought  me  this  steed  to  the  border  the  night 
She  met  Bevels  and  me  in  her  perilous  flight 
From  the  lodge  of  the  chief  to  the  North  Brazos  side; 
And  said,  so  half  guessing  of  ill  as  she  smiled, 
As  if  jesting,  that  I,  and  I  only,  should  ride 
The  fleet-footed  Pache,  so  if  kin  should  pursue 
I  should  surely  escape  without  other  ado 
II.  30 


350  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [ 

Than  to  rido,  without  blood,  to  the  North  Brazos  side, 
And  await  her, — and  wait  till  the  next  hollow  moon 
Hung  her  horn  in  the  palms,  when  surely  and  soon 
And  swift  she  would  join  me,  and  all  would  be  well 
"Without  bloodshed  or  word.     And  now,  as  she  fell 
From  the  front,  and  went  down  in  the  ocean  of  fire, 
The  last  that  I  saw  was  a  look  of  delight 
That  I  should  escape, — a  love, — a  desire, — 
Yet  never  a  word,  not  one  look  of  appeal, 
Lest  I  should  reach  hand,  should  stay  hand  or  stay  heel 
One  instant  for  her  in  my  terrible  flight. 

Then  the  rushing  of  fire  around  me  and  under, 
And  the  howling  of  beasts,  and  a  sound  as  of  thunder, — 
Beasts  burning  and  blind  and  forced  onward  and  over, 
As  the  passionate  flame  reached  around  them,  and  wove 

her 

Red  hands  in  their  hair,  and  kissed  hot  till  they  died, — 
Till  they  died  with  a  wild  and  desolate  moan, 
As  a  sea  heart-broken  on  the  hard  brown  stone.  .  .  . 
And  into  the  Brazos  ...  I  rode  all  alone, — 
All  alone,  save  only  a  horse  long-limbed 
And  blind  and  bare  and  burnt  to  the  skin. 
Then,  just  as  the  terrible  sea  came  in 
And  tumbled  its  thousands  hot  into  the  tide, 
Till  the  tide  blocked  up  and  the  swift  stream  brimmed 
In  eddies,  we  struck  on  the  opposite  side. 


CABLE]  THROUGH   THE  LINES.  351 

THROUGH  THE  LINES. 

G.  W.  CABLE. 

[George  ~W.  Cable  was  born  in  New  Orleans  in  1844.  He  served  ir 
the  Confederate  army,  and  for  some  time  afterwards  was  engaged  in 
business  in  his  native  city,  but  for  several  years  he  has  devoted  him 
self  entirely  to  literary  pursuits.  His  novels — all  of  recent  date — have 
been  widely  read,  and  are  highly  popular  from  their  freshness  and 
vivacity  and  the  novelty  of  the  Creole  life  which  they  chronicle. 
Their  dialect  is  something  new  and  strange.  Since  1884  Mr.  Cable 
has  become  very  popular  as  a  reader  and  lecturer,  his  own  works 
forming  the  basis  of  his  readings.  From  "  Dr.  Sevier"  we  extract  the 
following  exciting  description  of  the  endeavor  of  a  wife,  who  has  been 
refused  a  pass,  to  make  her  way  through  the  Confederate  lines  and 
join  her  husband,  who  is  dangerously  ill  at  New  Orleans.] 

THE  scene  and  incident  now  to  be  described  are  without 
date.  As  Mary  recalled  them,  years  afterward,  they  hung 
out  against  the  memory  a  bold,  clear  picture,  cast  upon  it 
as  the  magic-lantern  casts  its  tableaux  upon  the  darkened 
canvas.  She  had  lost  the  day  of  the  month,  the  day  of 
the  week,  all  sense  of  location,  and  the  points  of  the  com 
pass.  The  most  that  she  knew  was  that  she  was  some 
where  near  the  meeting  of  the  boundaries  of  three  States. 
Either  she  was  just  within  the  southern  bound  of  Ten 
nessee,  or  the  extreme  northeastern  corner  of  Mississippi, 
or  else  the  northwestern  corner  of  Alabama.  She  was 
aware,  too,  that  she  had  crossed  the  Tennessee  River,  that 
the  sun  had  risen  on  her  left  and  had  set  on  her  right, 
and  that  by  and  by  this  beautiful  day  would  fade  and  pass 
from  this  unknown  land,  and  the  firelight  and  lamplight 
draw  around  them  the  home-groups  under  the  roof-trees 
here  where  she  was  a  homeless  stranger,  the  same  as  in 
the  home-lands  where  she  had  once  loved  and  been  be 
loved. 


352  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [CABLB 

She  was  seated  in  a  small,  light  buggy  drawn  by  one 
good  horse.  Beside  her  the  reins  were  held  by  a  rather 
tall  man,  of  middle  age,  gray,  dark,  round-shouldered,  and 
dressed  in  the  loose  blue  flannel  so  much  worn  by  fol 
lowers  of  the  Federal  camp.  Under  the  stiff"  brim  of  his 
soft-crowned  black  hat  a  pair  of  clear  eyes  gave  a  con 
tinuous  playful  twinkle.  Between  this  person  and  Mary 
protruded,  at  the  edge  of  the  buggy-seat,  two  small 
bootees  that  have  already  had  mention,  and  from  his 
elbow  to  hers,  and  back  to  his,  continually  swayed 
drowsily  the  little  golden  head  to  which  the  bootees 
bore  a  certain  close  relation.  The  dust  of  the  highway 
was  on  the  buggy  and  the  blue  flannel  and  the  bootees. 
It  showed  with  special  boldness  on  a  black  sun-bonnet 
that  covered  Mary's  head,  and  that  somehow  lost  all  its 
homeliness  whenever  it  rose  sufficiently  in  front  to  show 
the  face  within.  But  the  highway  itself  was  not  there : 
it  had  been  left  behind  some  hours  earlier.  The  buggy 
was  moving  at  a  quiet  jog  along  a  "  neighborhood  road," 
with  unploughed  fields  on  the  right  and  a  darkling  woods- 
pasture  on  the  left.  By  the  feathery  softness  and  paleness 
of  the  sweet-smelling  foliage  you  might  have  guessed  it 
was  not  far  from  the  middle  of  April,  one  way  or  another; 
and  by  certain  allusions  to  Pittsburg  Landing  as  a  place 
of  conspicuous  note  you  might  have  known  that  Shiloh 
had  been  fought.  There  was  that  feeling  of  desolation  in 
the  land  that  remains  after  armies  have  passed  over,  lot 
them  tread  never  so  lightly. 

"D'you  know  what  them  rails  is  put  that  way  fur?" 
asked  the  man.  He  pointed  down  with  his  buggy-whip 
just  off  the  road-side,  first  on  one  hand  and  then  on  the 
other. 

"  No,"  said  Mary,  turning  the  sun-bonnet's  limp  front 
toward  the  questioner  and  then  to  the  disjointed  fence  on 


CABLE]  THROUGH  THE  LINES.  353 

her  nearer  side:  "that's  what  I've  been  wondering  for 
days.  They've  been  ordinary  worm  fences,  haven't 
they  ?" 

"Jess  so,"  responded  the  man,  with  his  accustomed 
twinkle.  "  But  I  think  I  see  you  oncet  or  twicet  lookin' 
at  'em  and  sort  o'  tryin'  to  make  out  how  come  they  got 
into  that  shape."  The  long-reiterated  TV's  of  the  rail- 
fence  had  been  pulled  apart  into  separate  Vs,  and  the 
two  sides  of  each  of  these  had  been  drawn  narrowly  to 
gether,  so  that  what  had  been  two  parallel  lines  of  fence, 
with  the  lane  between,  was  now  a  long  double  row  of 
wedge-shaped  piles  of  rails,  all  pointing  into  the  woods 
on  the  left. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  asked  Mary,  with  a  smile  of 
curiosity. 

"  Didn't  happen  at  all ;  'twas  jess  done  by  live  men,  and 
in  a  powerful  few  minutes  at  that.  Sort  o'  shows  what 
we're  approachin'  unto,  as  it  were,  eh  ?  Not  but  they's 
plenty  behind  us  done  the  same  way,  all  the  way  back 
into  Kentuck',  as  you  already  done  see ;  but  this's  been 
done  sence  the  last  rain,  and  it  rained  night  afore  last." 

"  Still  I'm  not  sure  what  it  means,"  said  Mary.  "  Has 
there  been  fighting  here  ?" 

"  Go  up  head,"  said  the  man,  with  a  facetious  gesture. 
"  See  ?  The  fight  came  through  these  here  woods,  here. 
'Tain't  been  much  over  twenty-four  hours,  I  reckon,  since 
every  one  o'  them-ah  sort  o'  shut-up-fan-shape  sort  o'  fish- 
traps  had  a  gray-jacket  in  it  layin'  flat  down  an'  firin' 
through  the  rails,  sort  o'  random-like,  only  not  much  so." 
His  manner  of  speech  seemed  a  sort  of  harlequin  patch 
work  from  the  bad  English  of  many  sections,  the  outcome 
of  a  humorous  and  eclectic  fondness  for  verbal  deformi 
ties.  But  his  lightness  received  a  sudden  check. 

"  Heigh-h-h !  "  he  gravely  and  softly  exclaimed,  gathor- 
II.—*  30* 


354  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [CABLB 

ing  the  reins  closer,  as  the  horse  swerved  and  dashed 
ahead.  Two  or  three  buzzards  started  up  from  the  road 
side,  with  their  horrid  flapping  and  whiff  of  quills,  and 
circled  low  overhead.  "  Heigh-h-h  I  "  he  continued,  sooth 
ingly.  "  Ho-o-o-o !  Somebody  lost  a  good  nag  there, — a 
six-pound  shot  right  through  his  head  and  neck.  Who 
ever  made  that  shot  killed  two  birds  with  one  stone, 
eho  1"  He  was  half  risen  from  his  seat,  looking  back.  As 
he  turned  again,  and  sat  down,  the  drooping  black  sun- 
bonnet  quite  concealed  the  face  within.  He  looked  at  it 
a  moment.  "  If  you  think  you  don't  like  the  risks,  we  can 
Btill  turn  back." 

"  No,"  said  the  voice  from  out  the  sun-bonnet :  "  go  on." 
"  If  we  don't  turn  back  now  we  can't  turn  back  at  all." 
"  Go  on,"  said  Mary.     "  I  can't  turn  back." 
"  You're  a  good  soldier,"  said  the  man,  playfully  again. 
"  You're  a  better  one  than  me,  I  reckon :  I  kin  turn  back 
frequently,  as  it  were.    I've  done  it  '  many  a  time  and  oft,1 
as  the  felleh  says." 

Mary  looked  up  with  feminine  surprise.  He  made  a 
pretence  of  silent  laughter,  that  showed  a  hundred  crows' - 
feet  in  his  twinkling  eyes. 

About  the  middle  of  that  night  Mary  Eichling  was  sit 
ting  very  still  and  upright  on  a  large  dark  horse  that  stood 
champing  his  Mexican  bit  in  the  black  shadow  of  a  great 
oak.  Alice  rested  before  her,  fast  asleep  against  her  bosom. 
Mary  held  by  the  bridle  another  horse,  whose  naked  saddle 
tree  was  empty.  A  few  steps  in  front  of  her  the  light  of 
the  full  moon  shone  almost  straight  down  upon  a  narrow 
road  that  just  there  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  woods 
on  either  side  and  divided  into  a  main  right  fork  and  a 
much  smaller  one  that  curved  around  to  Mary's  left.  Off 
in  the  direction  of  the  main  fork  the  sky  was  all  aglow 


CABLE]  THROUGH  THE  LINES.  355 

with  camp-fires.  Only  just  here  on  the  left  there  was  a 
cool  and  grateful  darkness. 

She  lifted  her  head  alertly.  A  twig  crackled  under  a 
tread,  and  the  next  moment  a  man  came  out  of  the  bushes 
at  the  left,  and  without  a  word  took  the  bridle  of  the  led 
horse  from  her  fingers  and  vaulted  into  the  saddle.  The 
hand  that  rested  a  moment  on  the  cantle  as  he  rose 
grasped  a  "  navy  six."  He  was  dressed  in  dull  homespun, 
but  ho  was  the  same  who  had  been  dressed  in  blue.  He 
turned  his  horse  and  led  the  way  down  the  lesser  road. 

"If  we'd  of  gone  three  hundred  yards  further,"  he 
whispered,  falling  back  and  smiling  broadly,  "  we'd  'a'  run 
into  the  pickets.  I  went  nigh  enough  to  see  the  vedettes 
settin'  on  their  hosses  in  the  main  road.  This  here  ain't 
no  road ;  it  just  goes  up  to  a  nigger  quarters.  I've  got 
one  o'  the  niggers  to  show  us  the  way." 

"Where  is  he?"  whispered  Mary;  but,  before  her  com 
panion  could  answer,  a  tattered  form  moved  from  behind 
a  bush  a  little  in  advance  and  started  ahead  in  the  path, 
walking  and  beckoning.  Presently  they  turned  into  a 
clear,  open  forest,  and  followed  the  long,  rapid,  swinging 
stride  of  the  negro  for  nearly  an  hour.  Then  they  halted 
on  the  bank  of  a  deep,  narrow  stream.  The  negro  made 
a  motion  for  them  to  keep  well  to  the  right  when  they 
should  enter  the  water.  The  white  man  softly  lifted  Alice 
to  his  arms,  directed  and  assisted  Mary  to  kneel  in  her 
saddle  with  her  skirts  gathered  carefully  under  her,  and 
so  they  went  down  into  the  cold  stream,  the  negro  first, 
with  arms  outstretched  above  the  flood,  then  Mary,  and 
then  the  white  man, — or,  let  us  say  plainly,  the  spy, — with 
the  unawakened  child  on  his  breast.  And  so  they  rose 
out  of  it  on  the  farther  side  without  a  shoe  or  garment 
wet  save  the  rags  of  their  dark  guide. 

Again  they  followed  him,  along  a  line  of  stake-and- 


356  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [CABLE 

rider  fence,  with  the  woods  on  one  side  and  the  bright 
moonlight  flooding  a  field  of  young  cotton  on  the  other. 
Now  they  heard  the  distant  baying  of  house-dogs,  now 
the  doleful  call  of  the  chuck-will's- widow ;  and  once 
Mary's  blood  turned,  for  an  instant,  to  ice,  at  the  un 
earthly  shriek  of  the  hoot-owl  just  above  her  head.  At 
length  they  found  themselves  in  a  dim,  narrow  road,  and 
the  negro  slopped. 

"Dess  keep  dish  yeh  road  fo'  'bout  half-mile,  an'  you 
etrak'  'pon  de  broad,  main  road.  Tek  de  right,  an'  you 
go  whah  yo'  fancy  tek  you." 

"  Good-by,"  whispered  Mary. 

"  Good-by,  miss,"  said  the  negro,  in  the  same  low  voice. 
"  Good-by,  boss :  don't  you  fo'git  you  promise  tek  me  thoo 
to  de  Yankee'  when  you  come  back.  I  'feered  you  gwine 
fo'git  it,  boss." 

The  spy  said  he  would  not,  and  they  left  him.  The 
half-mile  was  soon  passed,  though  it  turned  out  to  be  a 
mile  and  a  half,  and  at  length  Mary's  companion  looked 
back,  as  they  rode  single  file,  with  Mary  in  the  rear,  and 
said,  softly,  "  There's  the  road,"  pointing  at  its  broad,  pale 
line  with  his  six-shooter. 

As  they  entered  it  and  turned  to  the  right,  Mary,  with 
Alice  again  in  her  arms,  moved  somewhat  ahead  of  her 
companion,  her  indifferent  horsemanship  having  com 
pelled  him  to  drop  back  to  avoid  a  prickly  bush.  His 
horse  was  just  quickening  his  pace  to  regain  the  lost 
position,  when  a  man  sprang  up  from  the  ground  on  tbe 
farther  side  of  the  highway,  snatched  a  carbine  from  the 
earth,  and  cried,  "Halt!" 

The  dark,  recumbent  forms  of  six  or  eight  others  could 
be  seen,  enveloped  in  their  blankets,  lying  about  a  few  red 
coals.  Mary  turned  a  frightened  look  backward  and  met 
the  eyes  of  her  companion. 


CABLKJ  THROUGH  THE  LINES.  357 

"  Move  a  little  faster,"  said  he,  in  a  low,  clear  voice.  As 
she  promptly  did  so,  she  heard  him  answer  the  challenge., 
His  horse  trotted  softly  after  hers. 

"  Don't  stop  us,  my  friend :  we're  taking  a  sick  child  to 
the  doctor." 

"  Halt,  you  hound !"  the  cry  rang  out ;  and,  as  Mary 
glanced  back,  three  or  four  men  were  just  leaping  into 
the  road.  But  she  saw,  also,  her  companion,  his  face  suf 
fused  with  an  earnestness  that  was  almost  an  agony,  rise 
in  his  stirrups,  with  the  stoop  of  his  shoulders  all  gone, 
and  wildly  cry, — 

"  Go !" 

She  smote  the  horse  and  flew.  Alice  awoke  and 
screamed. 

"Hush,  my  darling!"  said  the  mother,  laying  on  the 
withe ;  "  mamma's  here.    Hush,  darling ! — mamma's  here. 
Don't  be  frightened,  darling  baby !      O   God,  spare  my  • 
child !"  and  away  she  sped. 

The  report  of  a  carbine  rang  out  and  went  rolling  away 
in  a  thousand  echoes  through  the  wood.  Two  others  fol 
lowed  in  sharp  succession,  and  there  went  close  by  Mary's 
ear  the  waspish  whine  of  a  minie-ball.  At  the  same  mo 
ment  she  recognized — once, — twice, — thrice, — -just  at  her 
back  where  the  hoofs  of  her  companion's  horse  were  clat 
tering — the  tart  rejoinders  of  his  navy  six. 

"  Go !"  he  cried,  again.  "  Lay  low  !  lay  low  !  cover  the 
child !"  But  his  words  were  needless.  With  head  bowed 
forward  and  form  crouched  over  the  crying,  clinging  child, 
with  slackened  rein  and  fluttering  dress,  and  sun-bonnet 
and  loosened  hair  blown  back  upon  her  shoulders,  with 
lips  compressed  and  silent  prayers,  Mary  was  riding  for 
life  and  liberty  and  her  husband's  bedside. 

"  Oh,  mamma !  mamma !"  wailed  the  terrified  little  one. 

"Go  on!      Go  on!"    cried  the  voice  behind:    "they're 


358  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [CAUL* 

saddling — up!  Go!  go!  "We're  goin' to  make  it!  "We're 
goin'  to  make  it !  Go-o-o !" 

Half  an  hour  later  they  were  again  riding  abreast,  at  a 
moderate  gallop.  Alice's  cries  had  been  quieted,  but  she 
still  clung  to  her  mother  in  a  great  tremor.  Mary  and 
her  companion  conversed  earnestly  in  the  subdued  tone 
that  had  become  their  habit. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  they  followed  us  fur,"  said  the  spy. 
"Seem  like  they's  jess  some  scouts,  most  likely  a-comin' 
in  to  report,  feelin'  pooty  safe  and  sort  o'  takin'  it  easy 
and  careless;  'dreamin'  the  happy  hours  away,'  as  the 
felleh  says.  I  reckon  they  sort  o'  believed  my  story,  too ; 
the  little  gal  yelled  so  sort  o'  skilful.  "We  kin  slack  up 
some  more  now ;  we  want  to  get  our  critters  lookin'  cool 
and  quiet  ag'in  as  quick  as  we  kin,  befo'  we  meet  up  with 
somebody."  They  reined  into  a  gentle  trot.  He  drew 
his  revolver,  whose  emptied  chambers  he  had  already  re 
filled.  "  D'd  you  hear  this  little  felleh  sing  '  Listen  to  the 
mockin'-bird'  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary;  "but  I  hope  it  didn't  hit  any  of 
them." 

He  made  no  reply. 

"  Don't  you  ?"  she  asked. 

He  grinned. 

"  D'you  want  a  felleh  to  wish  he  was  a  bad  shot  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  smiling. 

"  Well,  seein'  as  you're  along,  I  do.  For  they  wouldn't 
givo  us  up  so  easy  if  I'd  'a'  hit  one.  Oh,  mine  was  only 
sort  o'  complimentary  shots, — much  as  to  say,  '  Same  to 
you,  gents,'  as  the  felleh  says." 

At  an  abrupt  angle  of  the  road  Mary's  heart  leaped  into 
her  throat  to  find  herself  and  her  companion  suddenly  face 
to  face  with  two  horsemen  in  gray,  journeying  leisurely 


CABLE]  THROUGH  THE  LINES.  359 

toward  them  on  particularly  good  horses.  One  wore  a 
slouched  hat,  the  other  a  Federal  officer's  cap.  They 
were  the  first  Confederates  she  had  ever  seen  eye  to  eye. 

"  Ride  on  a  little  piece  and  stop,"  murmured  the  spy. 
The  strangers  lifted  their  hats  respectfully  as  she  passed 
them. 

"  Gents,"  said  the  spy,  "  good-morning !"  He  threw  a 
leg  over  the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  and  the  three  men 
halted  in  a  group.  One  of  them  copied  the  spy's  atti 
tude.  They  returned  the  greeting  in  kind. 

"What  command  do  you  belong  to?"  asked  the  lone 
stranger. 

"  Simmons's  battery,"  said  one.    "  Whoa !" — to  his  horse. 

"  Mississippi  ?"  asked  Mary's  guardian. 

"  Rackensack,"  said  the  man  in  the  blue  cap. 

"  Arkansas,"  said  the  other,  in  the  same  breath.  "  What 
is  your  command  ?" 

"Signal  service,"  replied  the  spy.  "Reckon  I  look 
mighty  like  a  citizen  jess  about  now,  don't  I  ?"  He  gavi> 
them  his  little  laugh  of  self-depreciation,  and  looked 
toward  Mary,  where  she  had  halted  and  was  letting  her 
horse  nip  the  new  grass  of  the  road-side. 

"  See  any  troops  along  the  way  you  come  ?"  asked  the 
man  in  the  hat. 

"  No ;  on'y  a  squad  o'  fellehs  back  yonder  who  was  all 
unsaddled  and  fast  asleep,  and  jumped  up  worse  scared'u 
a  drove  o'  wile  hogs.  We  both  sort  o'  got  a  little  mad, 
and  jess  swapped  a  few  shots,  you  know,  kind  o'  tit  for 
tat,  as  it  were.  Enemy's  loss  unknown."  He  stooped 
more  than  ever  in  the  shoulders,  and  laughed.  The  men 
were  amused.  "  If  you  see  'em,  I'd  like  you  to  mention 
me — "  He  paused  to  exchange  smiles  again.  "  And  tell 
'em  the  next  time  they  see  a  man  hurryin'  along  with  a 
lady  and  sick  child  to  see  the  doctor,  they  better  hold 


360  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [CABLE 

their  fire  till  they  sho  he's  on'y  a  citizen."  He  let  his 
foot  down  into  the  stirrup  again,  and  they  all  smiled 
broadly.  "Good-morning!"  The  two  parties  went  their 
ways. 

"Jess  as  leave  not  of  met  with  them  two  buttermilk 
rangers,"  said  the  spy,  once  more  at  Mary's  side;  "but, 
seein'  as  thah  we  was,  the  oniest  thing  was  to  put  on  all 
the  brass  I  had." 

Prom  the  top  of  the  next  hill  the  travellers  descended 
into  a  village  lying  fast  asleep,  with  the  morning  star 
blazing  over  it,  the  cocks  calling  to  each  other  from  their 
roosts,  and  here  and  there  a  light  twinkling  from  a  kitchen 
window,  or  a  lazy  axe-stroke  smiting  the  logs  at  a  wood 
pile.  In  the  middle  of  the  village  one  lone  old  man,  half 
dressed,  was  lazily  opening  the  little  wooden  "  store"  that 
monopolized  its  commerce.  The  travellers  responded  to 
his  silent  bow,  rode  on  through  the  place,  passed  over  and 
down  another  hill,  met  an  aged  negro,  who  passed  on  the 
road-side,  lifting  his  forlorn  hat  and  bowing  low,  and,  as 
soon  as  they  could  be  sure  they  had  gone  beyond  his 
sight  and  hearing,  turned  abruptly  into  a  dark  wood  on 
the  left.  Twice  again  they  turned  to  the  left,  going  very 
warily  through  the  deep  shadows  of  the  forest,  and  so  re 
turned  half  round  the  village,  seeing  no  one.  Then  they 
stopped  and  dismounted  at  a  stable-door,  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  place.  The  spy  opened  it  with  a  key  from  his  own 
pocket,  went  in,  and  came  out  again  with  a  great  armful 
of  hay,  which  he  spread  for  the  horses'  feet  to  muffle  their 
tread,  led  them  into  the  stable,  removed  the  hay  again, 
and  closed  and  locked  the  door. 

"  Make  yourself  small,"  he  whispered,  "  and  walk  fast." 
They  passed  by  a  garden-path  up  to  the  back  porch  and 
door  of  a  small  unpainted  cottage.  He  knocked,  three 
eoft,  measured  taps. 


WALLACE]         THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HAREM.  361 

"  Day's  breakin',"  he  whispered,  again,  as  he  stood  with 
Alice  asleep  in  his  arms,  while  somebody  was  heard  stir 
ring  within. 

"Sam?"  said  a  low,  wary  voice  just  within  the  un 
opened  door. 

"  Sister,"  softly  responded  the  spy,  and  the  door  swung 
inward,  and  revealed  a  tall  woman,  with  an  austere  but 
good  face,  that  could  just  be  made  out  by  the  dim  light 
of  a  tallow  candle  shining  from  the  next  room.  The 
travellers  entered,  and  the  door  was  shut. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HAREM. 

SUSAN  E.  WALLACE. 

["  The  Storied  Sea,"  a  vivacious  description  of  a  trip  up  the  Medi 
terranean,  and  of  life  and  incidents  among  its  bordering  peoples, 
is  the  source  of  the  richly-colored  picture  of  life  in  the  harem  which 
we  give  below.  It  reads  like  a  chapter  from  the  "Arabian  Nights' 
Entertainments"  written  with  a  Western  pen.  The  writer  is  Mrs. 
Susan  E.  Wallace,  the  wife  of  General  Lew.  Wallace,  and  the  work  is 
based  on  actual  observations  during  her  residence  in  Constantinople, 
where  her  husband  was  United  States  minister  from  1881  to  1885.] 

IT  was  in  the  land  of  crumbling,  cities,  strange  religions, 
deserted  fanes ;  of  quiet  men,  in  twisted  turbans  and  long 
beards;  of  placid  women,  with  faces  shrouded  like  the 
faces  of  the  dead,  as  pale  and  as  calm.  Tranquil  prisoners, 
with  respite  to  drive  and  walk  about  the  streets,  and  for 
a  brief  space  of  time  escape  bolt  and  bars,  in  charge  of 
armed  attendants.  A  land  silent  as  though  Time  him 
self  had  dropped  to  sleep  and  broken  his  emptied  hour 
glass. 

II.— Q  31 


362  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [WALLACE 

By  the  bluest  and  clearest  of  seas  there  is  a  deep  bay, 
where  the  navies  of  the  world  might  ride  at  anchor.  The 
sweeping  curves  of  its  shores  are  drawn  as  by  an  artist's 
hand,  and  from  its  margin  rise  terraced  heights,  like  the 
hanging  gardens  of  Babylon.  Toward  the  west  are  hills, 
with  capes  of  olive  green,  from  which  the  breeze  blows 
deliciously  cool  in  the  hottest  days.  Away  to  the  south 
tall,  slim  minarets  point  toward  the  glittering  god  of  the 
ancient  Persian,  and  dwarf  the  rounded  domes  below  by 
the  ethereal  grace  of  their  tapering  spires.  Close  to  the 
water's  edge  stands  a  palace  worthy  the  golden  prime  of 
Haroun  al  Raschid,  nobly  built  of  white  and  pink  marble, 
the  latter  brought  from  Egypt.  In  the  distance,  under  a 
sky  that  would  be  dazzling  were  it  not  so  soft,  it  shines 
like  a  temple  of  alabaster  and  silver. 

Its  crowning  glory  is  a  central  dome,  rising  in  peerless 
beauty,  like  a  globe  of  ice  or  of  crystal,  and  seeming  to 
hang  in  air.  Mirrored  in  the  glassy  water,  the  plume-like 
pillars  and  slender  turrets  are  a  picture  to  make  one  in 
love  with  its  builder.  He  had  the  soul  of  an  artist  who 
measured  the  span  of  its  rhythmic  arches  and  told  the 
heights  of  its  colonnades,  harmonious  to  the  eye  as  choice 
music  to  the  ear.  He  must  have  toiled  years  to  embody 
in  this  result  his  study  of  the  beautiful.  The  architect 
was  a  Spaniard,  and  he  had  the  same  creative  faculty 
(this  man  who  worked  in  formless  stone)  that  the  poet 
has  who  brings  his  idea  out  of  hidden  depths,  polishes  his 
work  with  elaborate  care,  nor  leaves  it  till  every  line  is 
wrought  to  perfect  finish.  Under  a  despotic  government 
architecture  that  is  magnificent  flourishes,  though  all 
other  arts  languish.  Among  a  semi-civilized  people  kings 
prefer  this  expression  of  power,  because  it  is  readily  un 
derstood,  demanding  no  instruction,  no  book  or  guide. 
He  who  runs  may  read,  be  it  the  stupendous  monument 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HAREM. 


WALLACE]         THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HAREM.  363 

of  Cheops  or  the  airy  pinnacles  of  Solyman  the  Magnifi 
cent.  The  wish  is  to  give  form  which  shall  compel  the 
entire  people  to  admiring  astonishment  of  works  they 
cannot  hope  to  imitate. 

Let  us  call  this  the  Palace  of  Delight,  for  there  dwells 
in  the  luxury  and  aroma  of  the  furthest  East  Nourrnahal, 
the  Light  of  the  Harem,  and  we  were  invited  to  see  hei, 
— the  bulbul,  the  rose,  the  Pearl  of  the  Orient,  the  bride 
of  Prince  Feramorz.  Dear  reader,  do  you  know  how 
come  the  brides  in  this  strange  country  ?  Do  you  think 
it  a  wooing  of  an  innocent,  laughing  girl,  who,  as  in  lands 
of  social  freedom,  lays  her  light  hand,  with  her  heart  in 
it,  in  yours?  A  prize  won  in  an  emulous  game,  where 
beauty  is  weighed  against  all  beside  which  the  world  has 
to  offer,  and  he  who  has  the  right  divine  may  carry  her 
off  from  Love's  shining  circle  to  be  the  centre  of  another 
of  his  own  creation  ?  There  was  no  flavor  of  American 
matches  in  this  betrothal,  no  hint  of  golden  afternoons  in 
shady  lanes,  nights  of  moonlit  silence,  and  dreams  better 
than  sleep,  of  wedding-bells  in  festal  rooms,  and  orange- 
flowers  that  leave  a  sweetness  outlasting  the  waste  of 
years.  Nor  was  it  like  European  marriages, — say  tho 
French  or  Italian, — where  a  demure  young  girl  is  taken 
from  the  convent,  and  by  her  parents  given  to  the  most 
eligible  parti,  of  whom  she  is  not  allowed  an  opinion, 
whom  she  sees  not  one  hour  alone  till  after  the  ceremony, 
in  which  her  dot  is  the  first,  second,  and  third  considera 
tion. 

Nor  yet  is  it  brought  about  like  the  weddings  in  kings' 
palaces,  by  negotiations  for  babies  in  the  cradle,  long, 
tedious  betrothal,  interviews  at  proper  times,  in  proper 
places,  and  presences  appointed,  where  exact  proprieties 
are  observed  by  the  happy  or  unhappy  pair.  Nor  was 
the  contract  made  as  of  old,  in  plains  not  very  far  distant 


364  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [WALLACE 

from  this,  when  Abraham  sent  out  his  most  trusted  ser 
vant  as  a  business  agent — a  travelling  man,  if  you  please 
— seeking  a  bride  for  his  son  Isaac.  By  no  such  devious 
windings  did  our  princess  come  to  the  altar.  The  lovely 
Nourmahal  was  bought  at  private  sale  for  ten  thousand 
pieces  of  gold,  and  thus  the  marriage  was  accomplished. 
It  is  not  our  business  to  inquire  whether  the  bargain  was 
made  in  the  shadow  of  the  black  tents  of  the  Bedouin,  or 
on  the  frosty  heights  of  Caucasus,  or  in  some  verdant 
vale  in  Araby  the  Blest.  It  was  to  a  better  condition, 
came  she  from  dissolute  races,  like  the  Georgian,  or  bar 
barian  hordes,  like  the  Tartar  and  Circassian,  where  the 
bride's  portion  is  a  sheepskin,  a  sack  of  barley,  a  hand- 
mill,  and  an  earthen  pan.  It  was  a  moment  of  melan 
choly  disenchantment  when  I  first  learned  how  she  had 
reached  the  rank  and  power  of  princess,  by  what  means 
been  lifted  from  desert  sand  and  gypsy  poverty  to  eider 
down  and  silken  luxury,  and  made  a  true  believer,  walk 
ing  in  the  paths  of  the  faithful.  To  be  young,  beautiful, 
and  beloved  is  heaven ;  she  was  this,  and,  it  was  said, 
sweet  as  summer  cherries  withal. 

Our  amiable  inquiries  about  what  is  not  our  concern 
availed  little.  Her  history  was  colorless  till  the  fated 
hour  came  when  its  blank  page  should  be  illuminated  and 
glow  with  tropic  splendor.  She  was  a  chosen  beauty; 
princes  seldom  sigh  in  vain ;  and,  so  long  as  men  have 
eyes  to  see,  fair  women  will  wear  purple  and  sit  on  thrones. 

Our  names  were  sent  in  ten  days  before  the  date  of  the 
reception,  a  day  which  stands  apart  in  memory  in  the 
year  1881,  in  the  Time  of  the  Scattering  of  Eoses,  or,  as 
we  would  say,  in  the  month  of  August. 

The  heaviest  iron-clads  might  lie  close  to  the  quay 
where  we  landed.  So  pure  is  the  water  and  so  intensely 
clear  that,  at  the  depth  of  four  fathoms,  fish  swim  and 


WALLACE]         THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HAREM.  365 

bright  stones  lie  as  though  close  beneath  the  calm  surface. 
Marble  steps  lead  to  the  water ;  and  when  our  little  boat 
neared  them,  two  sentinels,  moveless  as  statues,  appeared, 
clad  in  the  picturesque  costume  of  the  Tunisian  kavasse, 
all  gold  embroidery  and  dazzling  color,  even  to  the  holsters 
of  pistols  and  the  sides  of  the  long-topped  boots.  A  wall, 
perhaps  thirty  feet  high,  made  of  rough  stone,  was  broken 
by  a  gate  of  iron,  light  as  net- work,  evidently  of  French 
construction.  Its  double  valves  flew  open  at  our  approach, 
and  as  quickly  closed  when  we  entered  the  garden.  Two 
jet-black  attendants  were  in  waiting,  from  that  degraded 
class  of  men  to  whom  princes  safely  trust  their  treasures. 
The  word  "  harem"  means  "  the  reserved,"  and  these  were 
part  of  the  reserve-guard, — hideous  Ethiops  of  the  ex- 
tremest  type,  with  flattened  nose  and  lips, — swollen  rolls 
of  dingy  flesh.  Their  misshapen  skulls  were  hidden  by 
that  singular  formation  called  a  fez.  When  the  Creator 
gave  these  creatures  life,  he  denied  them  all  else.  Con 
demned  by  nature  to  a  perpetual  mourning  suit,  they  had 
revenge  in  gorgeous  costume,  which  must  have  been  con 
soling.  To  perfect  their  ugliness,  both  were  badly  pitted 
with  small-pox.  After  the  long-continued  obeisances  of 
the  East,  they  stood  with  folded  arms  and  downcast  eyes, 
fixed  as  the  stone  lions  beside  the  gate. 

The  garden  was  small,  the  narrow  walks  paved  with 
black  and  white  pebbles,  laid  in  graceful  arabesque  pat 
terns,  rimmed  with  a  fanciful  border  of  tiles.  We  had 
scented,  out  in  the  bay,  the  heavy  fragrance  of  roses  we 
call  damask ;  masses  of  bloom,  crowded  in  beds  or  lining 
alleys  reddened  by  their  blossoms.  The  terraces  were 
high  and  narrow,  their  sheer  sides  banks  of  ivy,  honey 
suckle,  and  myrtle, — a  tangle  of  running  vines,  giving 
the  feeling  of  wildness  and  seclusion  in  its  untamed 
luxuriance.  There  the  acacia  "  waved  her  yellow  hair," 
ii.  31* 


366  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [WALLACE 

most  exquisite  of  trees,  delicate  as  some  high-born  lady 
a  frail  beauty  in  her  trembling  lace-work  of  fine  leaves. 
Beneath  its  branches  was  a  swing  of  manilla  cord,  with  a 
cushion  tasselled  and  fringed  with  gold.  Bees  hummed, 
butterflies  darted  through  the  air  like  flying  leaves,  and 
humming-birds  hovered  over  the  purple  bells  of  a  creeper 
to  me  unknown.  Up  higher  were  dense  shades  of  laurel 
and  lemon,  pomegranate,  with  scarlet  buds,  close  thickets 
of  bay  and  of  citron,  walks  set  with  daisies  and  violets, 
bordered  by  heliotrope  and  lavender.  Highest  on  the 
hill,  accented  with  clear  outline  against  the  speckless 
sapphire,  stood  the  round-topped  cedars  of  the  Orient, 
reminders  of  Lebanon,  and  the  palm,  swaying  its  green 
plumes.  Most  honored  of  trees,  for,  says  the  devout 
Moslem,  "  Thou  must  honor  thy  paternal  aunt,  the  date- 
palm,  for  she  was  created  of  the  earth  of  which  Adam 
was  made."  In  the  centre  of  the  garden  a  fountain  threw 
a  glancing  column  skyward  and  fell  in  an  alabaster  basin, 
where  gold-fish  swam  among  white  lilies  and  the  azure 
lotus  of  Persia.  A  tiny  stream,  brought  from  the  snowy 
sides  of  some  distant  mountain,  ran  in  wayward  grace 
over  vari-colored  pebbles,  laid  with  studied  carelessness 
and  nicest  attention  to  effect, — a  copy  of  nature.  On  ita 
rim  a  long-legged  stork  stood,  intent  on  his  prey.  A 
miniature  pavilion,  a  gracious  retreat  from  the  sun,  was 
roofed  with  vines,  from  which  hung  pendent  the  scarlet 
passion-flower.  Oh,  it  was  beautiful !  beautiful !  All 
flowers  consecrated  by  poetry,  religion,  and  love  grew 
there.  Even  the  rough  wall  was  covered  like  the  verdu 
rous  wall  of  the  first  garden,  which  lay  eastward  in  Eden. 
Could  it  be  possible  the  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  it  all  ? 
Rather  let  me  believe  it  the  Earthly  Paradise  of  the 
Prophet  or  the  Paradise  Eegained  of  the  Christian. 
"We  could  not  loiter,  for  Nourraahal  was  waiting.  From 


WALLACE]         THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HAREM.  367 

the  entrance-hall  to  which  men  are  admitted,  called  "  the 
place  of  greeting,"  slave-girls  emerged  to  meet  us  and 
drew  up  in  lines,  through  which  we  passed.  We  crossed 
an  outer  court,  open  to  the  sky,  with  cool  marble  pave 
ment,  under  an  arched  way,  to  a  hall  covered  with  India 
matting.  Beyond  was  a  spacious  rotunda,  a  fountain 
dancing  in  the  centre  under  the  dome,  which  rested  on 
pillars  of  lapis-lazuli.  I  counted  eight  fragile  supporting 
columns  of  bright  blue  veined  with  white.  Overhead 
were  traceries  in  blue  and  gold,  pendent  stalactites,  the 
"  honeycomb  ceilings"  of  the  Moorish  kings ;  the  tints  of 
the  Alhambra  were  in  the  inlaying  of  many  colors,  and 
gilt  texts  of  the  Koran  on  the  walls.  The  builder  had 
that  most  romantic  of  castles  in  heart  and  eye  when  he 
planned  the  Palace  of  Delight.  We  slowly  crossed  the 
circular  space  (everything  moves  slowly  here),  stopping 
only  to  admire  a  sultana-bird,  with  purple  breast,  in  an 
ivory  cage,  and  a  few  white  doves,  that  with  many  a  flirt 
and  flutter  bathed  in  the  bright  water,  or  on  the  rim 
of  the  pool  cooed  and  twined  their  beaks  together,  with 
outstretched  wings,  undisturbed  by  our  approach.  Be 
yond  was  the  reception-room,  called  Dares-Saadet  (Abode 
of  Felicity),  where  the  Pearl  of  the  Orient  was  to  be  seen. 
It  was  screened  by  a  portiere  made  of  Lahore  shawls  fig 
ured  with  palm-leaves,  elephants,  and  pagodas, — a  quaint 
and  costly  drapery,  drawn  back  for  us  to  pass  under.  Aa 
we  entered,  a  crowd  of  slave-girls  formed  lines,  between 
which  we  passed, — young  natives  from  the  mountains  of 
the  Atlas,  with  vicious  eyes  and  sidelong  glances.  One 
was  a  light  mulatto,  with  crisp  hair  and  downcast  look 
reminding  me  of  the  old  days  of  slavery.  They  were 
dressed  in  cheap,  gay,  checked  silks,  made  like  our  morn 
ing  wrappers,  belts  of  tinsel,  large  silver  ear-rings  with 
grotesque  heads  of  animals  in  front.  White  muslin  tur- 


368  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [WALLACK 

bans  covered  their  heads,  their  hands  were  thin  and  wiry, 
and  they  bore  the  meek,  passive  manner  of  all  women 
of  the  East.  Two  sides  of  the  room  were  of  glass,  the 
one  overlooking  the  bay  latticed  with  iron,  painted  white, 
which  banished  the  prison-look  it  would  otherwise  have. 
Velvety  rugs  of  Bochara  and  Korassan  were  laid  here 
and  there  over  the  floor  of  blue  and  white  mosaic.  A 
broad,  low  divan  of  pale-blue  silk  ran  around  the  apart 
ment.  Voild  tout.  No  pictures  on  the  marble  walls,  no 
books,  no  bric-d-brac,  no  trumpery  "collections,"  ceramics, 
aesthetic  trash,  grave  or  gay,  nor  muffling  hangings, — 
these  are  not  Oriental  luxuries, — but,  instead,  a  cool, 
shady  emptiness,  plenty  of  space  for  the  breeze  to  flutter 
the  gauzy  curtains  and  carry  the  echo  of  the  plash  and 
drip  of  the  fountains. 

At  the  furthest  end,  reclining  on  pillows  of  silk  and  lace, 
rested  the  lady  we  sought.  One  little  foot,  in  red  velvet 
slipper,  was  first  seen  below  wide  trousers  of  yellow  silk ; 
a  loose  robe  of  white  silk,  embroidered  with  gold  thread, 
was  partly  covered  by  a  sleeveless  jacket  of  crimson, 
dotted  with  seed-pearl ;  a  broad,  variegated  sash  wound 
the  slender  waist.  Half  concealing  the  arms  was  a  light 
scarf,  airy  as  the  woven  wind  of  the  ancients.  A  head 
band,  with  diamond  pendants,  fringed  her  forehead ;  a 
riviere  of  diamonds  circled  the  bare  throat ;  and  here  and 
there  solitary  drops  flashed  in  the  braids  of  her  night- 
black  hair.  Among  the  billowy  cushions  and  vaporous 
veilings  rose  the  young  face, — oh,  what  a  revelation  of 
beauty! — uplifted  in  a  curious,  questioning  way,  to  see 
what  manner  of  women  these  are,  who  come  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  with  unveiled  faces,  and  go  about  the 
world  alone,  and  have  to  think  for  themselves, — poor 
things  !  The  expression  was  that  of  a  lovely  child  wak 
ing  from  summer  slumber  in  the  happiest  humor,  ready 


WALLACE!         THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HAREM.  369 

for  play.  A  sensitive,  exquisite  face,  fair  as  the  first  of 
•women  while  the  angel  was  yet  unfallen.  A  perfect  oval, 
the  lips  a  scarlet  thread,  and,  oh,  those  wonderful  Asiatic 
eyes ! — lustrous,  coal-black,  long  rather  than  round,  beam 
ing  under  the  joined  eyebrows  of  which  the  poet  Hafiz 
sings. 

The  edges  of  the  eyelids  were  blackened  with  kohl, 
which  Orientals  use  to  intensify  the  brilliance  of  the  bright 
est  eyes  under  the  sun.  The  most  common  kind  is  smoke- 
black,  made  by  burning  frankincense  or  shells  of  almonds. 
Sometimes  an  ore  of  lead  is  used  in  fine  powder.  Our 
American  girls  make  a  miserable  bungle  of  it,  smearing 
the  whole  eyelids,  giving  a  ghastly  and  unnatural  effect, 
very  different  from  the  thin  line  of  antimony  applied  by 
a  probe  of  ivory  dipped  in  the  powder  and  skilfully  drawn 
on  the  tip  edges  of  the  lids. 

Nourmahal  did  not  rise,  but  held  out  one  jewelled  hand, 
dimpled  as  a  baby's,  with  nails  and  finger-ends  dyed  pink 
with  henna, — five  clustering  rose-buds.  The  magic  of 
beauty  made  us  her  subjects.  We  kissed  the  little  fingers 
loyally,  and  yielded  ourselves  willing  captives,  ready  to 
be  dragged  at  her  chariot-wheels.  My  life-long  notions 
of  the  subjection  of  women  (see  Stuart  Mill)  and  the 
wretchedness  of  prisoners  pining  in  palatial  splendors 
vanished  at  the  first  glance ;  went  down  at  a  touch,  like 
the  wounded  knight  in  the  lists  of  Templestowe.  She 
smiled,  and  hoped  we  were  well;  then  followed  suitable 
inquiries  as  to  health  and  journeys,  and  expressions  of 
the  charm  of  finding  it  all  out.  Our  interpreter  was  an 
Armenian  lady  with  the  gift  of  tongues.  When  con 
versation  is  filtered  through  three  languages,  it  becomes 
very  thin ;  even  such  a  bold  and  spirited  remark  as  "  This 
is  a  happy  day  for  me ;  I  shall  never  forget  it,"  was  robbed 
of  half  its  spice  and  flavor  by  the  time  it  reached  the  ear 
ii.— y 


370  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [WALLACE 

for  which  it  was  intended.  I  ventured  the  high  assertion 
that  we  had  sailed  six  thousand  miles  on  purpose  to  lay 
our  homage  at  her  blessed  feet ;  which  rhetorical  nourish 
was  received  with  a  childish  nod  at  about  what  it  was 
worth.  Somehow,  she  did  not  seem  so  enchanted  with 
her  new  worshippers  as  they  were  with  her.  It  appeared 
the  Beauty  had  never  seen  the  sea  except  from  shore. 

"  What  is  it  like  when  you  are  in  the  middle  of  thu 
dark  water  ?" 

"  Had  she  seen  the  Great  Desert  ?" 

"  Yes,  many  times,  and  had  trembled  when  awful  col 
umns  of  dust  swept  across  it,  moved  by  the  wings  of  evil 
genii." 

"  It  was  like  that ;  wide,  still,  a  desert  of  water  more 
lonely  than  any  land." 

"  Do  many  people  drown  there  ?"  she  asked  of  the  mys 
terious  horror. 

"  Yery  few.    You  would  have  no  fear." 

"  Because  I  shall  never  go  on  it,"  she  said,  triumphantly, 
and  laughed,  showing  teeth  like  pomegranate-seeds,  and 
shook  the  diamond-drops  on  her  forehead,  so  delighted 
was  she  with  the  simple  wit. 

Suddenly  changing  her  tone,  she  asked,  "  Why  do  you 
wear  black  dresses  ?" 

I  have  never  seen  an  Eastern  woman,  of  high  or  low 
degree,  in  a  black  garment  of  any  make.  Even  their 
shoes  are  gayly  embroidered.  Dismal  and  coarse  three 
elderly  women  in  the  conventional  black  silks  and  poke- 
bonnets  must  appear  to  one  clad  in  elegant  draperies  of 
various  and  brilliant  dyes,  whose  eyes  ever  rested  on  tints 
to  which  the  rainbow  is  dim. 

"  It  is  the  custom  of  our  country  for  women  to  go  out 
in  black,"  we  answered. 

"  How  sad !"  said  Beauty  j  and  it  did  seem  sad  in  that 


WALLACE]        THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HAREM.  371 

light  and  lovely  room,  all  sunshine  and  vivid  color.  "We 
were  in  love  with  her,  and  again  declared  our  love.  She 
accepted  the  admiration  as  one  well  used  to  such  extrava 
gance,  and  clapped  her  hands  after  the  fashion  of  ladies 
of  the  "Arabian  Nights."  At  the  signal,  the  slaves  dis 
appeared,  except  one  old  woman  and  the  negroes,  silent 
as  ghosts,  beside  the  Lahore  drapery.  In  a  few  minutes 
five  slaves  returned,  each  carrying  a  small  round  table  of 
cedar,  inlaid  with  scraps  of  mother-of-pearl.  Five  others 
followed,  with  lighted  cigarettes,  lying  each  in  a  silver 
saucer,  and  coffee  in  tiny  cups,  about  the  size  of  a  giant's 
thimble,  resting  in  a  silver  filigree  holder  set  round  with 
diamonds. 

"  My  new  friends  have  come  so  far,"  said  Nourmahal, 
"  they  must  be  tired.  Take  a  cigarette  and  refresh  your 
selves." 

I  rather  awkwardly  adjusted  the  holder  of  amber  and 
ventured  one  faint  whiff.  Imagine  my  astonishment  at 
seeing  my  friend,  whose  name  with  difficulty  I  suppress, 
puff  away  like  a  dissipated  old  smoker !  The  Armenian 
was  native  and  to  the  manner  born.  Kourmahal  smoked, 
of  course,  and  a  lulling  calm  succeeded  the  excitement  of 
the  brilliant  conversation  reported  above.  While  feeling 
round  in  my  brain  for  a  subject  of  common  interest 
adapted  to  our  hostess's  capacity  and  mine,  I  tried  a  sip 
of  the  coffee.  It  was  strong  enough  to  bear  up  an  egg, 
thick  with  grounds,  and  bitter  as  death.  I  pretended  to 
deep  enjoyment  of  the  dose,  and  sipped  it,  drop  by  drop, 
to  the  bitter  end. 

Nourmahal  clapped  her  hands  again,  and  the  ten  virgins 
took  away  the  saucers.  I  think  none  of  them  were  fool 
ish,  for  they  fell  into  line  without  effort,  each  one  treading 
in  the  footsteps  of  her  predecessor,  at  an  interval  to  avoid 
her  train. 


372  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [WALLACE 

Presently  they  returned,  with  gold-fringed  napkins,  and 
silver  cups  of  sherbet  flavored  with  quince,  and  a  con 
serve  of  rose-leaves.  Wishing  to  appear  easy  as  pos 
sible  and  thoroughly  Oriental,  I  trifled  with  the  delicious 
nectar,  cooled  with  snow,  and  was  not  half  through  when 
the  attendant  picked  up  my  table  of  cedar  and  pearl  and 
disappeared  with  it.  How  I  regret  not  having  swallowed 
the  Olympian  food  at  railroad  speed !  for  it  was  the  first 
ice  I  had  seen  for  many  months.  It  is  not  court  etiquette 
to  ask  receipts,  and,  after  a  sigh  of  regret  for  what  I  shall 
never  taste  again,  I  returned  to  the  fascination  of  a  triple- 
tongued  conversation. 

"In  this  charming  palace  you  must  be  very  happy. 
How  do  you  pass  the  time  ?" 

The  dimples  deepened  in  the  cheeks  of  Beauty.  "  Pass 
the  time  ?  pass  the  time  ?"  she  dreamily  repeated,  playing 
with  the  knotted  fringes  of  her  scarf.  "  I  do  not  pass  it , 
it  passes  itself!"  and  again  she  laughed,  and  the  laughter 
was  sweet  as  the  tenderest  voice  can  make  it. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  music  ?" 

Three  ladies  in  black:  "Oh!  very!"  "Oh!  very!" 
"Oh!  very!" 

"Then  you  shall  be  amused."  She  clapped  the  rose- 
leaf  palms,  and  in  marched  eight  women  musicians  (we 
«aw  no  men  that  day  but  the  harem-guard"),  bearing 
stringed  instruments, — curious-looking  things,  like  over 
grown  violins  and  half-finished  guitars,  and  a  round  shell, 
with  strings  across,  beaten  with  two  sticks. 

Didst  ever  hear  Arabic  music,  beloved  ? 

No  ?     Then  never  hast  thou  known  sorrow. 

Since  Jubal  first  struck  the  gamut,  there  can  have  been 
no  improvement  in  these  compositions.  How  long  the 
exercises  lasted  I  am  unable  to  record ;  but  I  do  know  we 
grew  old  fast  under  the  beat,  beat,  hammer,  hammer,  in 


WALLACE]        THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HAREM.  373 

the  terse,  unmeaning  notes  of  the  banjo.  In  the  brief 
interval  at  the  end  of  a  peculiarly  agonizing  strain  sung 
by  the  mulatto,  I  seized  the  moment  to  ask  what  were 
the  words  of  the  song,  and  was  told  it  is  a  serenade,  very 
ancient,  dating  back  to  the  Times  of  Ignorance,  before 
the  coming  of  Mohammed,  whose  tomb  is  covered  with 
the  splendor  of  unceasing  light.  I  afterward  obtained  a 
copy  of  the  madrigal,  and  give  it  in  rough  translation. 
It  is  doubtful  if  the  almond-eyed  Juliet  came  down  from 
her  lattice  after  the  anguish  of  that  performance  on  the 
nina. 

On  a  steed  shod  with  fire  I  come, 
And  weary  is  my  heart  with  waiting, 
Awakened  it  feels  a  vague  unrest. 
Chorus : 

0  thou  whose  shape  is  that  of  the  cypress, 
And  whose  mouth  is  the  opening  rose-bud, 

1  am  here,  faithful  as  thy  shadow. 

Thy  eyebrows  are  the  form  of  an  arch, 
The  shafts  of  thy  lashes  are  unsparing, 
And  the  scars  which  they  leave  are  bleeding. 
O  thou  whose  shape,  etc. 

Queen  rose,  thy  slave  Kaschid  is  beggared. 
His  whole  heart  is  only  one  wound ; 
Smile  but  once,  and  his  head  will  touch  the  stars. 
O  thou  whose  shape,  etc. 

As  we  passed  out  of  the  salon,  each  of  us  received  a  box 
of  crimson  andem*  wood,  wrapped  in  tissue-paper.  "  To 
be  opened  when  you  reach  home,"  said  the  interpreter. 

The  doves  had  gone  to  their  nests,  for  the  shades  of 


*  A  precious  perfumed  wood  of  India. 
n.  32 


374  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [WALLACE 

evening  were  in  the  rotunda ;  the  sultana-bird,  with  head 
under  its  wing,  was  a  purple  ball ;  the  moon  was  high 
over  the  enchanted  garden  which  the  King  of  the  Genii 
had  made  for  Prince  Feramorz.  A  tame  gazelle,  wearing 
a  collar  of  silver  bells,  followed  us  to  the  gate,  and  in  a 
fond,  endearing  way  laid  its  pretty  head  on  my  arm  and 
looked  in  my  face, — the  most  appealing  glance  of  a  weary 
prisoner,  longing  for  the  freedom  of  Judah's  hills,  the 
mild  thyme  of  Hermon,  and  the  mountains  of  spices. 
Those  eyes  had  a  human  expression,  which  has  never  left 
my  memory.  I  have  seen  it  in  the  wistful  gaze  of  young 
mothers,  in  the  yearning  eyes  of  those  who  have  so  long 
mourned  that  the  grief  has  become  a  softened  sorrow. 
Well  do  they  name  the  love-song  "  gazelle." 

Before  the  gate  we  suddenly  paused,  at  the  same  in 
stant,  moved  by  the  same  impulse,  and  turned  to  look  for 
one  moment  more  on  the  Palace  and  Garden  of  Delight. 
We  felt  we  should  not  see  its  like  again,  for  there  are  few 
such  gardens  in  the  world.  The  Paradise  palms  were 
whispering  their  secrets,  and  the  pines  wailed  in  answer 
to  the  sea-breeze  as  harp-strings  answer  to  the  harper's 
hand.  The  moonlight  tipped  each  leaf  with  silver;  the 
flowers  were  pale,  but  not  faded ;  heaven  and  earth  were 
still,  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most.  A  bird, 
a  little  brown  thing,  like  a  wren,  flew  out  of  a  thicket  of 
laurels  and  hid  among  the  starry  blossoms  of  the  mag 
nolia.  Then  hark !  that  wondrous  note.  I  should  have 
recognized  it  even  if  Thalia  had  not  lifted  a  hushing 
finger  and  said,  under  her  breath,  "  Believe  me,  love,  it  is 
the  nightingale." 

It  was  the  nightingale,  and  the  voice  (so  sweet,  so  sweet 
J  hear  it  yet,  and  shall  hear  it  at  intervals  forever)  was 
more  stilling  than  very  silence.  That  wild  melody  was 
not  the  legendary  plaint  of  the  love-lorn  mate,  leaning 


YOUNG]     THE  HEAT  AND  LIGHT  OF  THE  SUN.  375 

her  breast  against  a  thorn,  but  rather  an  ecstatic  strain 
from  a  soul  so  full  it  must  tell  its  rapture  or  die.  Its 
charm  was  past  all  telling,  beyond  the  reach  of  words. 
Still,  as  I  write,  hundreds  of  miles  away,  after  months  of 
rapid  travel,  my  heart  thrills  with  the  echo  of  its  ineffable 
sweetness.  The  doe  (the  winsome  thing,  with  the  haunt 
ing  eyes)  leaned  heavily  against  my  arm  while  we  stood 
and  listened.  Night  was  fallen,  for  in  these  latitudes  it 
makes  brief  mingling  with  day.  It  is  only  to  meet  and 
kiss  in  a  crimson  blush  and  part  again.  "  Good-by  for 
ever,"  we  said,  as  the  lock  snapped  in  the  iron  valves. 
The  voice  of  the  bulbul  followed  us  through  the  perfumed 
dusk,  like  an  invisible  angel  allowed  to  pass  the  guarded 
gates  of  Eden  and  cheer  the  homely  pilgrims  on  their 
way. 

Freshly  the  breeze  blew,  and  the  briny  smell  of  the  sea 
was  tonic,  after  the  languors  of  the  palace.  The  rich  and 
balmy  eve  invited  to  silence.  Under  a  trance  we  floated 
between  blue  and  blue  (whether  in  the  body  or  out  of  the 
body  I  cannot  tell)  in  the  supreme  delight  of  a  day  unreal 
in  its  poetic  lights, — so  like  the  stuff  which  dreams  are 
made  of,  I  sometimes  wonder  which  was  dream  and  which 
reality. 


THE  HEAT  AND  LIGHT  OF  THE  SUN. 

C.  A.  YOUNG. 

[Charles  Augustus  Toung,  the  astronomer,  was  born  in  New  Hamp 
shire  in  1834.  He  has  been  professor  of  mathematics  and  astronomy 
in  several  Western  colleges,  and  in  1877  became  professor  of  astronomy 
at  Princeton  College.  His  spectroscopic  studies,  and  researches  into 
the  physics  and  chemistry  of  the  sun,  are  of  high  scientific  value.  He 


376  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [Youisa 

has  written  much  on  scientific  subjects,  his  principal  work  being  "  The 
Sun,"  from  which  we  extract  some  interesting  passages.] 

SUNLIGHT  is  the  intensest  radiance  at  present  known. 
It  far  exceeds  the  brightness  of  the  calcium-light,  and 
is  not  rivalled  even  by  the  most  powerful  electric  arc. 
Either  of  these  lights  interposed  between  the  eye  and  the 
surface  of  the  sun  appears  as  a  black  spot  upon  the  disk 

We  can  measure  with  some  accuracy  the  total  quantity 
of  sunlight,  and  state  the  amount  in  "  candle-power :"  the 
figure  which  expresses  the  result  is,  however,  so  enormous 
that  it  fails  to  convey  much  of  an  idea  to  the  mind :  it  is 
1,575,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 ;  fifteen  hundred  and 
seventy-five  billions  of  billions,  enumerated  in  the  Eng 
lish  manner,  which  requires  a  million  million  to  make  a 
billion;  or  one  octillion  five  hundred  and  seventy-five 
septillion,  if  we  prefer  the  French  enumeration. 

The  "  candle-power,"  which  is  the  unit  of  light  goner- 
ally  employed  in  photometry,  is  the  amount  of  light  given 
by  a  sperm-candle  weighing  one-sixth  of  a  pound  and 
burning  a  hundred  and  twenty  grains  an  hour.  An  ordi 
nary  gas-burner,  consuming  five  feet  of  gas  hourly,  gives, 
if  the  gas  is  of  standard  quality,  from  twelve  to  sixteen 
times  as  much  light.  The  total  light  of  the  sun  is,  there 
fore,  about  equivalent  to  one  hundred  billion  billion  of 
such  gas-jets.  .  .  . 

Thus  far  we  have  considered  only  the  total  light  emitted 
by  the  sun.  The  question  of  the  intrinsic  brightness  of 
his  surface  is  a  different  though  connected  one,  depending 
for  its  solution  upon  the  same  observations,  combined  with 
a  determination  of  the  light-radiating  areas  in  the  dif 
ferent  cases.  Since  a  candle-flame  at  the  distance  of  one 
metre  looks  considerably  larger  than  the  disk  of  the  sun, 
it  is  evident  that  it  must  be  a  good  deal  more  than  seventy 
thousand  times  less  brilliant.  In  fact,  it  would  have  to  be 


YOUNG]     THE  HEAT  AND  LIGHT  OF  THE  SUN.  377 

at  a  distance  of  about  1.65  metres  to  cover  the  same  area 
of  the  sky  as  the  sun  does,  and  therefore  the  solar  surface 
must  exceed  by  a  hundred  and  ninety  thousand  times  tho 
average  brightness  of  the  candle-flame.  .  .  . 

One  of  the  most  interesting  observations  upon  the 
brightness  of  the  sun  is  that  of  Professor  Langley,  who  a 
few  years  ago  (in  1878)  made  a  careful  comparison  between 
the  solar  radiation  and  that  from  the  blinding  surface  of 
the  molten  metal  in  a  Bessemer  "  converter."  The  bril 
liance  of  this  metal  is  so  great  that  the  dazzling  stream 
of  melted  iron,  which,  at  one  stage  of  the  proceedings,  is 
poured  in  to  mix  with  the  metal  already  in  the  crucible, 
"  is  deep  brown  by  comparison,  presenting  a  contrast  like 
that  of  dark  coffee  poured  into  a  white  cup."  The  com 
parison  was  so  conducted  that,  intentionally,  every  advan 
tage  was  given  to  the  metal  in  comparison  with  the  sun 
light,  no  allowances  being  made  for  the  losses  encountered 
by  the  latter  during  its  passage  through  the  smoky  air  of 
Pittsburg  to  the  reflector  which  threw  its  rays  into  the 
photometric  apparatus.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  this  dis 
advantage,  the  sunlight  came  out  Jive  thousand  three  hundred 
times  brighter  than  the  dazzling  radiance  of  the  incandes 
cent  metal.  .  .  . 

If  the  amount  of  solar  light  is  enormous,  as  compared 
with  terrestrial  standards,  the  same  thing  is  still  moro 
true  of  the  solar  heat,  which  admits  of  somewhat  more 
accurate  measurement,  since  we  are  no  longer  dependent 
on  a  unit  so  unsatisfactory  as  the  "candle-power,"  and 
can  substitute  thermometers  and  balances  for  the  human 
eye. 

It  is  possible  to  intercept  a  beam  of  sunshine  of  known 

dimensions,  and  make  it  give  up  its  radiant  energy  to  a 

weighed  mass  of  water  or  other  substance,  to  measure 

accurately  the  rise  of  temperature  produced  in  a  given 

II.  32* 


378  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [Yoimo 

time,  and  from  these  data  to  calculate  the  whole  amount 
of  heat  given  off  by  the  sun  in  a  minute  or  a  day. 

Pouillet  and  Sir  John  Herschel  seem  to  have  been  the 
first  fairly  to  grasp  the  nature  of  the  problem,  and  to  in 
vestigate  the  subject  in  a  rational  manner.  .  .  . 

Herschel  preferred  to  express  his  results  in  terms  of 
melting  ice,  and  put  it  in  this  way :  the  amount  of  heat 
received  on  the  earth's  surface,  with  the  sun  in  the  zenith, 
would  melt  an  inch  thickness  of  ice  in  two  hours  and 
thirteen  minutes  nearly. 

Since  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  sun's 
radiation  is  equal  in  all  directions,  it  follows  that,  if  the 
sun  were  surrounded  by  a  great  shell  of  ice,  one  inch 
thick  and  a  hundred  and  eighty-six  million  miles  in  diam 
eter,  its  rays  would  just  melt  the  whole  in  the  same  time. 
If,  now,  we  suppose  this  shell  to  shrink  in  diameter,  re 
taining,  however,  the  same  quantity  of  ice  by  increasing 
its  thickness,  it  would  still  be  melted  in  the  same  time. 
Let  the  shrinkage  continue  until  the  inner  surface  touches 
the  photosphere,  and  it  would  constitute  an  envelope  more 
than  a  mile  in  thickness,  through  which  the  solar  fire 
would  still  thaw  out  its  way  in  the  same  two  hours  and 
thirteen  minutes, — at  the  rate,  according  to  Herschel's 
determinations,  of  more  than  forty  feet  a  minute.  Her- 
echel  continues  that,  if  this  ice  were  formed  into  a  rod 
45.3  miles  in  diameter,  and  darted  toward  the  sun  with 
the  velocity  of  light,  its  advancing  point  would  be  melted 
off  as  fast  as  it  approached,  if  by  any  means  the  whole 
of  the  solar  rays  could  be  concentrated  on  the  head.  Or, 
to  put  it  differently,  if  we  could  build  up  a  solid  column 
of  ice  from  the  earth  to  the  sun,  two  miles  and  a  quarter 
in  diameter,  spanning  the  inconceivable  abyss  of  ninety- 
three  million  miles,  and  if  then  the  sun  should  concentrate 
his  power  upon  it,  it  would  dissolve  and  melt,  not  in  an 


YOUNG]     THE  HEAT  AND  LIGHT  OF  THE  SUN.  379 

hour,  nor  a  minute,  but  in  a  single  second :  one  swing  of 
the  pendulum,  and  it  would  be  water ;  seven  more,  and  it 
would  be  dissipated  into  vapor. 

In  formulating  this  last  statement  we  have,  however, 
employed,  not  Herschel's  figures,  but  those  resulting  from 
later  observations,  which  increase  the  solar  radiation  about 
twenty-five  per  cent.,  making  the  thickness  of  the  ice 
crust  which  the  sun  would  melt  off  of  his  own  surface  in 
a  minute  to  be  much  nearer  fifty  feet  than  forty. 

To  put  it  a  little  more  technically,  expressing  it  in  terms 
of  the  modern  scientific  units,  the  sun's  radiation  amounts 
to  something  over  a  million  calories  per  minute  for  each 
square  metre  of  his  surface,  the  calory,  or  heat-unit,  being 
the  quantity  of  heat  which  will  raise  the  temperature  of 
a  kilogramme  of  water  one  degree  centigrade. 

An  easy  calculation  shows  that  to  produce  this  amount 
of  heat  by  combustion  would  require  the  hourly  burning 
of  a  layer  of  anthracite  coal  more  than  sixteen  feet  (five 
metres)  thick  over  the  entire  surface  of  the  sun, — nine- 
tenths  of  a  ton  per  hour  on  each  square  foot  of  surface, — 
at  least  nine  times  as  much  as  the  consumption  of  the 
most  powerful  blast-furnace  known  to  art.  It  is  equiva 
lent  to  a  continuous  evolution  of  about  ten  thousand  horse 
power  on  every  square  foot  of  the  sun's  whole  area.  As 
Sir  William  Thomson  has  shown,  the  sun,  if  it  were  com 
posed  of  solid  coal  and  produced  its  heat  by  combustion, 
would  burn  out  in  less  than  six  thousand  years. 

Of  this  enormous  outflow  of  heat  the  earth  of  course 
intercepts  only  a  small  portion,  about  ^.Tinr.Tfjnr.TU-iF.  But 
even  this  minute  fraction  is  enough  to  melt  yearly,  at  the 
earth's  equator,  a  layer  of  ice  something  over  one  hundred 
and  ten  feet  thick.  If  we  choose  to  express  it  in  terms  of 
"power,"  we  find  that  this  is  equivalent,  for  each  square 
foot  of  surface,  to  more  than  sixty  tons  raised  to  the 


380  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [CHILD 

height  of  a  mile ;  and,  taking  the  whole  surface  of  the 
earth,  the  average  energy  received  from  the  sun  is  over 
fifty  mile-tons  yearly,  or  one  horse-power  continuously 
acting,  to  every  thirty  square  feet  of  the  earth's  surface. 
Most  of  this,  of  course,  is  expended  merely  in  maintain 
ing  the  earth's  temperature;  but  a  small  portion,  perhaps 
T^W  °f  tne  whole,  as  estimated  by  Helmholtz,  is  stored 
away  by  animals  and  vegetables,  and  constitutes  an  abun 
dant  revenue  of  power  for  the  whole  human  race. 


A  BANQUET  AT  ASPASIA'S. 

LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD. 

[The  author  from  whom  we  select  the  following  interesting  repro 
duction  of  a  scene  from  the  life  of  ancient  Greece  was  a  well-known 
writer  of  novels  and  of  juvenile  literature,  and  an  able  advocate  of 
the  anti-slavery  cause.  Her  "  Progress  of  Keligious  Ideas"  (in  three 
volumes)  cannot  be  praised  as  manifesting  the  careful  discrimination 
necessary  to  an  historical  work,  and  her  reputation  must  rest  on  her 
other  writings,  which  are  of  much  literary  value.  The  selection  we 
give  is  from  "Philothea:  a  Grecian  Komance."  The  conversation  at 
Aspasia's  seems  to  possess  the  flavor  of  the  genuine  "  Attic  salt."  Mrs. 
Child  was  born  in  Massachusetts  in  1802.  She  died  in  1880.] 

THE  room  in  which  the  guests  were  assembled  was 
furnished  with  less  of  Asiatic  splendor  than  the  private 
apartment  of  Aspasia ;  but  in  its  magnificent  simplicity 
there  was  a  more  perfect  manifestation  of  ideal  beauty. 
It  was  divided  in  the  middle  by  eight  Ionic  columns, 
alternately  of  Phrygian  and  Pentelic  marble.  Between 
the  central  pillars  stood  a  superb  statue  from  the  hand 
of  Phidias,  representing  Aphrodite  guided  by  Love  and 


CHILD]  A   BANQUET  AT  ASPASIA'S.  381 

crowned  by  Peitho,  goddess  of  Persuasion.  Around  the 
walls  were  Phoebus  and  Hermes  in  Parian  marble,  and  the 
nine  Muses  in  ivory.  A  fountain  of  perfumed  water,  from 
the  adjoining  room,  diffused  coolness  and  fragrance  as  it 
passed  through  a  number  of  concealed  pipes  and  finally 
flowed  into  a  magnificent  vase  supported  by  a  troop  of 
Naiades. 

In  a  recess  stood  the  famous  lion  of  Myron,  surrounded 
by  infant  Loves,  playing  with  his  paws,  climbing  his  back, 
and  decorating  his  neck  with  garlands.  This  beautiful 
group  seemed  actually  to  live  and  move  in  the  clear  light 
and  deep  shadows  derived  from  a  silver  lamp  suspended 
above. 

The  walls  were  enriched  with  some  of  the  choicest 
paintings  of  Apollodorus,  Zeuxis,  and  Polygnotus.  Near 
a  fine  likeness  of  Pericles,  by  Aristolaus,  was  Aspasia, 
represented  as  Chloris  scattering  flowers  over  the  earth 
and  attended  by  winged  Hours. 

It  chanced  that  Pericles  himself  reclined  beneath  his 
portrait,  and,  though  political  anxiety  had  taken  from  his 
countenance  something  of  the  cheerful  freshness  which 
characterized  the  picture,  he  still  retained  the  same  ele 
vated  beauty, — the  same  deep,  quiet  expression  of  intel 
lectual  power.  At  a  short  distance,  with  his  arm  resting 
'on  the  couch,  stood  his  nephew,  Alcibiades,  deservedly 
called  the  handsomest  man  in  Athens.  He  was  laughing 
with  Hermippus,  the  comic  writer,  whose  shrewd,  sar 
castic,  and  mischievous  face  was  expressive  of  his  calling. 
Phidias  slowly  paced  the  room,  talking  of  the  current 
news  with  the  Persian  Artaphernes.  Anaxagoras  reclined 
near  the  statue  of  Aphrodite,  listening  and  occasionally 
speaking  to  Plato,  who  leaned  against  one  of  the  marble 
pillars,  in  earnest  conversation  with  a  learned  Ethiopian. 

The  gorgeous  apparel  of  the  Asiatic  and  African  guests 


382  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [CHILD 

contrasted  strongly  with  the  graceful  simplicity  of  Grecian 
costume.  A  saffron-colored  mantle  and  a  richly-embroid 
ered  Median  vest  glittered  on  the  person  of  the  venerable 
Artaphernes.  Tithonus,  the  Ethiopian,  wore  a  skirt  of 
ample  folds,  which  scarcely  fell  below  the  knee.  It  was 
of  the  glorious  Tyrian  hue,  resembling  a  crimson  light 
shining  through  transparent  purple.  The  edge  of  the 
garment  was  curiously  wrought  with  golden  palm-leaves. 
It  terminated  at  the  waist  in  a  large  roll,  twined  with 
massive  chains  of  gold,  and  fastened  by  a  clasp  of  the 
far-famed  Ethiopian  topaz.  The  upper  part  of  his  person 
was  uncovered  and  unornamented,  save  by  broad  brace 
lets  of  gold,  which  formed  a  magnificent  contrast  with  the 
sable  color  of  his  vigorous  and  finely-proportioned  limbs. 

As  the  ladies  entered,  the  various  groups  came  forward 
to  meet  them ;  and  all  were  welcomed  by  Aspasia  with 
earnest  cordiality  and  graceful  self-possession.  While  the 
brief  salutations  were  passing,  Hipparete,  the  wife  of 
Alcibiades,  came  from  an  inner  apartment,  where  she  had 
been  waiting  for  her  hostess.  She  was  a  fair,  amiable 
young  matron,  evidently  conscious  of  her  high  rank.  The 
short  blue  tunic,  which  she  wore  over  a  lemon -colored 
robe,  was  embroidered  with  golden  grasshoppers ;  and  on 
her  forehead  sparkled  a  jewelled  insect  of  the  same  species. 
It  was  the  emblem  of  unmixed  Athenian  blood ;  and 
Hipparete  alone  of  all  the  ladies  present  had  a  right  to 
wear  it.  Her  manners  were  an  elaborate  copy  of  Aspasia, 
but  deprived  of  the  powerful  charm  of  unconsciousness, 
which  flowed  like  a  principle  of  life  into  every  motion  of 
that  beautiful  enchantress.  .  .  . 

At  a  signal  from  Plato,  slaves  filled  the  goblets  with 
wine,  and  he  rose  to  propose  the  usual  libation  to  the 
gods.  Every  Grecian  guest  joined  in  the  ceremony, 
singing,  in  a  recitative  tone, — 


CHILD]  A  BANQUET  AT  ASPASIA'S.  383 

"  Dionysus,  this  to  thee, 
God  of  warm  festivity  ! 
Giver  of  the  fruitful  vine, 
To  thee  we  pour  the  rosy  wine !" 

Music  from  the  adjoining  room  struck  in  with  the 
chorus,  and  continued  for  some  moments  after  it  had 
ceased. 

For  a  short  time  the  conversation  was  confined  to  the 
courtesies  of  the  table,  as  the  guests  partook  of  the  de 
licious  viands  before  them.  Plato  ate  olives  and  bread 
only ;  and  the  water  he  drank  was  scarcely  tinged  with 
Lesbian  wine.  Alcibiades  rallied  him  upon  this  abstemi 
ousness  ;  and  Pericles  reminded  him  that  even  his  great 
pattern,  Socrates,  gave  Dionysus  his  dues,  while  he  wor 
shipped  the  heaven-born  Pallas. 

The  philosopher  quietly  replied,  "I  can  worship  the 
fiery  god  of  Yintage  only  when  married  with  Nymphs  of 
the  Fountain." 

"But  tell  me,  O  Anaxagoras  and  Plato,"  exclaimed 
Tithonus,  "  if,  as  Hermippus  hath  said,  the  Grecian  phi 
losophers  discard  the  theology  of  the  poets  ?  Do  ye  not 
believe  in  the  gods  ?" 

Plato  would  have  smiled,  had  he  not  reverenced  the 
simplicity  that  expected  a  frank  and  honest  answer  to  a 
question  so  dangerous.  Anaxagoras  briefly  replied,  that 
the  mind  which  did  not  believe  in  divine  beings  must  be 
cold  and  dark  indeed. 

"Even  so,"  replied  Artaphernes,  devoutly:  "blessed  be 
Oromasdes,  who  sends  Mithras  to  warm  and  enlighten 
the  world!  But  what  surprises  me  most  is,  that  you 
Grecians  import  new  divinities  from  other  countries  as 
freely  as  slaves,  or  papyrus,  or  marble.  The  sculptor 
of  the  gods  will  scarcely  be  able  to  fashion  half  their 
images." 


384  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [CHILD 

"If  the  custom  continues,"  rejoined  Phidias,  "it  will 
indeed  require  a  lifetime  as  long  as  that  conferred  upon 
the  namesake  of  Tithonus." 

"  Thanks  to  the  munificence  of  artists,  every  deity  has 
a  representative  in  my  dwelling,"  observed  Aspasia. 

"  I  have  heard  strangers  express  their  surprise  that  the 
Athenians  have  never  erected  a  statue  to  the  principle  of 
Modesty"  said  Hermippus. 

"  So  much  the  more  we  need  that  we  enshrine  her  image 
in  our  own  hearts,"  rejoined  Plato. 

The  sarcastic  comedian  made  no  reply  to  this  quiet  re 
buke.  Looking  toward  Artaphernes,  he  continued  :  "  Tell 
me,  O  servant  of  the  great  king,  wherein  the  people  of 
your  country  are  more  wise  in  worshipping  the  sun  than 
we  who  represent  the  same  divinity  in  marble." 

"The  principles  of  the  Persian  religion  are  simple, 
steady,  and  uniform,"  replied  Artaphernes;  "but  the 
Athenian  are  always  changing.  You  not  only  adopt 
foreign  gods,  but  sometimes  create  new  ones,  and  admit 
them  into  your  theology  by  solemn  act  of  the  great 
council.  These  circumstances  have  led  me  to  suppose 
that  you  worship  them  as  mere  forms.  The  Persian 
Magi  do  indeed  prostrate  themselves  before  the  rising  sun  ; 
but  they  do  it  in  the  name  of  Oromasdes,  the  universal 
Principle  of  Good,  of  whom  that  great  luminary  is  the 
visible  symbol.  In  our  solemn  processions,  the  chariot 
sacred  to  Oromasdes  precedes  the  horse  dedicated  to 
Mithras ;  and  there  is  deep  meaning  in  the  arrangement. 
The  Sun  and  the  Zodiac,  the  Balance  and  the  Eule,  are 
but  emblems  of  truths,  mysterious  and  eternal.  As  the 
garlands  we  throw  on  the  sacred  fire  feed  the  flame,  rather 
than  extinguish  it,  so  the  sublime  symbols  of  our  religion 
are  intended  to  preserve,  not  to  conceal,  the  truths  within 
them." 


CHILD]  A  BANQUET  AT  ASPASIA'S.  385 

"  Though  you  disclaim  all  images  of  divinity,"  rejoined 
Aspasia,  "yet  we  hear  of  your  Mithras  pictured  like  a 
Persian  king,  trampling  on  a  prostrate  ox." 

With  a  smile,  Artaphernes  replied,  "I  see,  lady,  that 
you  would  fain  gain  admittance  to  the  Mithraic  cave ;  but 
its  secrets,  like  those  of  your  own  Eleusis,  are  concealed 
from  all  save  the  initiated." 

"  They  tell  us,"  said  Aspasia,  "  that  those  who  are  ad 
mitted  to  the  Eleusinian  mysteries  die  in  peace,  and  go 
directly  to  the  Elysian  fields,  while  the  uninitiated  wander 
about  in  the  infernal  abyss." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Anaxagoras,  "  Alcibiades  will  go  di 
rectly  to  Elysium,  though  Solon  groped  his  way  in  dark 
ness." 

The  old  philosopher  uttered  this  with  imperturbable 
gravity,  as  if  unconscious  of  satirical  meaning ;  but  some 
of  the  guests  could  scarcely  repress  a  smile,  as  they  recol 
lected  the  dissolute  life  of  the  young  Athenian. 

"  If  Alcibiades  spoke  his  real  sentiments,"  said  Aspasia, 
"  I  venture  to  say  he  would  tell  us  that  the  mystic  baskets 
of  Demeter,  covered  with  long  purple  veils,  contain  nothing 
half  so  much  worth  seeing  as  the  beautiful  maidens  who 
carry  them." 

She  looked  at  Pericles,  and  saw  that  he  again  cautioned 
her,  by  raising  the  rose  toward  his  face,  as  if  inhaling  its 
fragrance. 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  which  Anaxagoras  interrupted 
l>y  saying,  "  The  wise  can  never  reverence  images  merely 
as  images.  There  is  a  mystical  meaning  in  the  Athenian 
manner  of  supplicating  the  gods  with  garlands  on  their 
heads  and  bearing  in  their  hands  boughs  of  olive  twined 
with  wool.  Pallas,  at  whose  birth,  we  are  told,  gold  rained 
upon  the  earth,  was  unquestionably  a  personification  of 
wisdom.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  philosophers 
ii. — R  z  33 


386  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [CHILD 

of  any  country  consider  the  sun  itself  as  anything  more 
than  a  huge  ball  of  fire ;  but  the  sight  of  that  glorious 
orb  leads  the  contemplative  soul  to  the  belief  in  one  Pure 
Intelligence,  one  Universal  Mind,  which  in  manifesting 
itself  produces  order  in  the  material  world  and  preserves 
the  unconfused  distinction  of  infinite  varieties." 

"  Such,  no  doubt,  is  the  tendency  of  all  reflecting  minds," 
said  Phidias;  "but,  in  general,  the  mere  forms  are  wor 
shipped,  apart  from  the  sacred  truths  they  represent. 
The  gods  we  have  introduced  from  Egypt  are  regarded  by 
the  priests  of  that  learned  land  as  emblems  of  certain 
divine  truths  brought  down  from  ancient  times.  They 
are  like  the  Hermae  at  our  doors,  which  outwardly  appear 
to  rest  on  inexpressive  blocks  of  stone,  but  when  opened 
they  are  found  to  contain  beautiful  statues  of  the  gods 
within  them.  It  is  not  so  with  the  new  fables  which  the 
Greeks  are  continually  mixing  with  their  mythology. 
Pygmalion,  as  we  all  know,  first  departed  from  the  rigid 
outline  of  ancient  sculpture,  and  impressed  life  and  motion 
upon  marble.  The  poets,  in  praise  of  him,  have  told  us 
that  his  ardent  wishes  warmed  a  statue  into  a  lovely  and 
breathing  woman.  The  fable  is  fanciful  and  pleasing  in 
itself;  but  will  it  not  hereafter  be  believed  as  reality? 
Might  not  the  same  history  be  told  of  much  that  is  be 
lieved  ?  It  is  true,"  added  he,  smiling,  "  that  I  might  be 
excused  for  favoring  a  belief  in  images,  since  mortals  are 
ever  willing  to  have  their  own  works  adored." 

"  What  does  Plato  respond  to  the  inquiries  of  Phidias  ?" 
asked  Artaphernes. 

The  philosopher  replied,  "  Within  the  holy  mysteries  of 
our  religion  is  preserved  a  pure  and  deep  meaning,  as  the 
waters  of  Arethusa  flow  uncontaminated  beneath  the  earth 
and  the  sea.  I  do  not  presume  to  decide  whether  all  that 
is  believed  has  the  inward  significancy.  I  have  over  deemed 


A  BANQUET  AT  ASPASTA'S.  387 

such  speculations  unwise.  If  the  chaste  daughter  of  La- 
tona  always  appears  to  my  thoughts  veiled  in  heavenly 
purity,  it  is  comparatively  unimportant  whether  I  can 
prove  that  Acteon  was  torn  by  his  dogs  for  looking  on 
the  goddess  with  wanton  eyes.  Anaxagoras  said  wisely 
that  material  forms  lead  the  contemplative  mind  to  the 
worship  of  ideal  good,  which  is  in  its  nature  immortal 
and  divine.  Homer  tells  us  that  the  golden  chain  resting 
upon  Olympus  reaches  even  to  the  earth.  Here  we  see 
but  a  few  of  the  last  links,  and  those  imperfectly.  "We 
are  like  men  in  a  subterranean  cave,  so  chained  that  they 
can  look  only  forward  to  the  entrance.  Far  above  and 
behind  us  is  a  glowing  fire;  and  beautiful  beings,  of  every 
form,  are  moving  between  the  light  and  us  poor  fettered 
mortals.  Some  of  these  bright  beings  are  speaking,  and 
others  are  silent.  We  see  only  the  shadows  cast  on  the 
opposite  wall  of  the  cavern  by  the  reflection  of  the  fire 
above ;  and  if  we  hear  the  echo  of  voices,  we  suppose  it 
belongs  to  those  passing  shadows.  The  soul,  in  its  present 
condition,  is  an  exile  from  the  orb  of  light ;  its  ignorance 
is  forgetfulness ;  and  whatever  we  can  perceive  of  truth, 
or  imagine  of  beauty,  is  but  a  reminiscence  of  our  former 
more  glorious  state  of  being.  He  who  reverences  the 
gods,  and  subdues  his  own  passions,  returns  at  last  to  the 
blest  condition  from  which  he  fell.  But  to  talk,  or  think, 
about  these  things  with  proud  impatience,  or  polluted 
morals,  is  like  pouring  pure  water  into  a  miry  trench : 
he  who  does  it  disturbs  the  mud,  and  thus  causes  the 
clear  water  to  become  defiled.  "When  Odysseus  removed 
his  armor  from  the  walls,  and  carried  it  to  an  inner 
apartment,  invisible  Pallas  moved  before  him  with  her 
golden  lamp,  and  filled  the  place  with  radiance  divine 
Telemachus,  seeing  the  light,  exclaimed,  '  Surely,  my 
father,  some  of  the  celestial  gods  are  present.'  "With  deep 


388  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [FIELD 

wisdom,  the  king  of  Ithaca  replied,  '  Be  silent.    Bestrain 
your  intellect,  and  speak  not.'  " 

"  I  am  rebuked,  O  Plato,"  answered  Phidias ;  "  and  from 
henceforth,  when  my  mind  is  dark  and  doubtful,  I  will 
remember  that  transparent  drops  may  fall  into  a  turbid 
well.  Nor  will  I  forget  that  sometimes,  when  I  have 
worked  on  my  statues  by  torch-light,  I  could  not  perceive 
their  real  expression,  because  I  was  carving  in  the  shadow 
of  my  own  hand." 

"  Little  can  be  learned  of  the  human  soul  and  its  con 
nection  with  the  Universal  Mind,"  said  Anaxagoras: 
"  these  sublime  truths  seem  vague  and  remote,  as  Phcea- 
cia  appeared  to  Odysseus  like  a  vast  shield  floating  on  the 
surface  of  the  distant  ocean. 

"  The  glimmering  uncertainty  attending  all  such  specu 
lations  has  led  me  to  attach  myself  to  the  Ionic  sect, 
who  devote  themselves  entirely  to  the  study  of  outward 
nature." 

"  And  this  is  useful,"  rejoined  Plato.  "  The  man  who  is 
to  be  led  from  a  cave  will  more  easily  see  what  the 
heavens  contain  by  looking  to  the  light  of  the  moon  and 
the  stars  than  by  gazing  on  the  sun  at  noon-day." 


THE  OWL-CRITIC. 

JAMES  T.  FIELDS. 

"  WHO  stuffed  that  white  owl  ?"     No  one  spoke  in  the 

shop; 

The  barber  was  busy,  and  he  couldn't  stop ; 
The  customers,  waiting  their  turns,  were  all  reading 
The  Daily,  the  Herald,  the  Post,  little  heeding 


FIBLD]  THE  OWL-CRITIC.  389 

The  young  man  who  blurted  out  such  a  blunt  question ; 
Not  one  raised  a  head,  or  even  made  a  suggestion ; 

And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 

"  Don't  you  see,  Mister  Brown," 

Cried  the  youth,  with  a  frown, 

"  How  wrong  the  whole  thing  is, 

How  preposterous  each  wing  is, 

How  flattened  the  head  is,  how  jammed  down  the  neck 

is,— 

In  short,  the  whole  owl,  what  an  ignorant  wreck  'tis ! 
I  make  no  apology  ; 
I've  learned  owl-eology, 

I've  passed  days  and  nights  in  a  hundred  collections, 
And  cannot  be  blinded  to  any  deflections 
Arising  from  unskilful  fingers  that  fail 
To  stuff  a  bird  right,  from  his  beak  to  his  tail. 
Mister  Brown !  Mister  Brown ! 
Do  take  that  bird  down, 
Or  you'll  soon  be  the  laughing-stock  all  over  town  1" 

And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 

"  I've  studied  owls, 
And  other  night  fowls, 
And  I  tell  you 
"What  I  know  to  be  true : 
An  owl  cannot  roost 
With  his  limbs  so  unloosed ; 
No  owl  in  this  world 
Ever  had  his  claws  curled, 
Ever  had  his  legs  slanted, 
Ever  had  his  bill  canted, 
Ever  had  his  neck  screwed 
Into  that  attitude. 

ii.  33* 


390  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [FIELD 

He  can't  do  it,  because 
'Tis  against  all  bird  laws. 
Anatomy  teaches, 
Ornithology  preaches, 
An  owl  has  a  toe 
That  can't  turn  out  so ! 

I've  made  the  white  owl  my  study  for  years, 
And  to  see  such  a  job  almost  moves  me  to  tears! 
Mister  Brown,  I'm  amazed 
You  should  be  so  gone  crazed 
As  to  put  up  a  bird 
In  that  posture  absurd ! 

To  look  at  that  owl  really  brings  on  a  dizziness ; 
The  man  who  stuffed  him  don't  half  know  his  business  I* 
And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving 

"  Examine  those  eyes. 
I'm  filled  with  surprise 
Taxidermists  should  pass 
Off  on  you  such  poor  glass ; 
So  unnatural  they  seem 
They'd  make  Audubon  scream, 
And  John  Burroughs  laugh 
To  encounter  such  chaff. 
Do  take  that  bird  down : 
Have  him  stuffed  again,  Brown  1" 

And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving 

"  With  some  sawdust  and  bark 
I  could  stuff  in  the  dark 
An  owl  better  than  that. 
I  could  make  an  old  hat 
Look  more  like  an  owl 
Than  that  horrid  fowl, 


LESLIE]  AUNT  QUIMBY.  391 

Stuck  up  there  so  stiff  like  a  side  of  coarse  leather. 
In  fact,  about  Mm  there's  not  one  natural  feather." 

Just  then,  with  a  wink  and  a  sly  normal  lurch, 
The  owl,  very  gravely,  got  down  from  his  perch, 
Walked  round,  and  regarded  his  fault-finding  critic 
(Who  thought  he  was  stuffed)  with  a  glance  analytic, 
And  then  fairly  hooted,  as  if  he  should  say, 
"  Your  learning's  at  fault  this  time,  anyway ; 
Don't  waste  it  again  on  a  live  bird,  I  pray. 
I'm  an  owl  j  you're  another.     Sir  Critic,  good-day  1" 

And  the  barber  kept  on  shaving. 


AUNT  QUIMBY. 

ELIZA   LESLIE. 

[Fifty  years  ago  Miss  Leslie  was  a  power  in  Philadelphia  society, 
from  the  cutting  satire  of  her  highly-popular  stories,  in  which  the 
mushroom  aristocracy  of  the  day  were  handled  with  little  mercy,  and 
in  some  cases  their  actual  names  used  in  narratives  of  no  compli 
mentary  character.  Aunt  Quimby,  with  her  inconveniently  exact 
memory,  served  as  one  of  these  whips  for  family  pride,  by  relating 
incidents  in  the  ancestral  history  of  the  aristocracy  which  had  the  in 
convenience  of  having  actually  occurred.  Miss  Leslie's  style,  though 
intensely  practical,  had  marked  humor,  and  her  stories  were  widely 
read.  In  addition  she  was  the  author  of  a  once  noted  "  Cookery 
Book,"  and  of  other  works  of  a  similar  character.  She  was  born  in 
Philadelphia  in  1787,  and  died  in  1858.] 

IN  the  mean  time  Mrs.  Quimby  continued  to  call  on  the 
attention  of  those  around  her.  To  some  the  old  lady  was 
a  source  of  amusement,  to  others  of  disgust  and  annoy 
ance.  By  this  time  they  all  understood  who  she  was,  and 


392  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [LESLIB 

how  she  happened  to  be  there.  Fixing  her  eyes  on  a 
very  dignified  and  fashionable-looking  young  lady,  whom 
she  had  heard  addressed  as  Miss  Lybrand,  and  who,  with 
several  others,  was  sitting  nearly  opposite,  "  Pray,  miss," 
said  Aunt  Quimby,  "  was  your  grandfather's  name  Moses?" 

"  It  was,"  replied  the  young  lady. 

"  Oh !  then  you  must  be  a  grand-daughter  of  old  Moses 
Lybrand,  who  kept  a  livery-stable  up  in  Race  Street ;  and 
his  son  Aaron  always  used  to  drive  the  best  carriage, 
after  the  old  man  was  past  doing  it  himself.  Is  your 
father's  name  Aaron  ?" 

"No,  madam,"  said  Miss  Lybrand,  looking  very  red. 
"  My  father's  name  is  Richard." 

"  Richard :  he  must  have  been  one  of  the  second  wife's 
children.  Oh!  I  remember  seeing  him  about  when  he 
was  a  little  boy.  He  had  a  curly  head,  and  on  week-days 
generally  wore  a  gray  jacket  and  corduroy  trousers ;  but 
he  had  a  nice  bottle-green  suit  for  Sunday.  Yes,  yes: 
they  went  to  our  church,  and  sat  up  in  the  gallery.  And 
he  was  your  father,  was  he?  Then  Aaron  must  have 
been  your  own  uncle.  He  was  a  very  careful  driver  for  a 
young  man.  He  learnt  of  his  father.  I  remember  just 
after  we  were  first  married,  Mr.  Quimby  hiring  Moses 
Lybrand's  best  carriage  to  take  me  and  my  bridesmaids 
and  groomsmen  on  a  trip  to  Germantown.  It  was  a  yel 
low  coachee  with  red  curtains,  and  held  us  all  very  well 
with  close  packing.  In  those  days  people  like  us  took 
their  wedding-rides  to  Germantown  and  Frankford  and 
Darby,  and  ordered  a  dinner  at  a  tavern  with  custards 
and  whips,  and  came  home  in  the  evening.  And  the 
highfliers,  when  they  got  married,  went  as  far  as  Chester 
or  Dunks's  Ferry.  They  did  not  then  start  off  from  the 
church  door  and  scour  the  roads  all  the  way  to  Niagara 
just  because  they  were  brides  and  grooms ;  as  if  that  was 


LESLIE]  AUNT  qUIMBY.  393 

any  reason  for  flying  their  homes  directly.  But  pray 
what  has  become  of  your  uncle  Aaron  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  young  lady,  looking  much 
displeased.  "  I  never  heard  of  him." 

"  But  did  not  you  tell  me  your  grandfather's  name  was 
Moses  ?" 

"  There  may  have  been  other  Moses  Lybrands." 

"  Was  not  he  a  short,  pock-marked  man,  that  walked  a 
little  lame,  with  something  of  a  cast  in  his  right  eye  ? — or, 
I  won't  be  positive,  maybe  it  was  in  the  left  ?" 

"I  am  very  sure  papa's  father  was  no  such  looking 
person,"  replied  Miss  Lybrand ;  "  but  I  never  saw  him : 
he  died  before  I  was  born." 

"  Poor  old  man,"  resumed  Mrs.  Quimby :  "  if  I  remem 
ber  right,  Moses  became  childish  many  years  before  his 
death." 

Miss  Lybrand  then  rose  hastily,  and  proposed  to  her 
immediate  companions  a  walk  farther  into  the  woods ; 
and  Myrtilla,  leaving  the  vicinity  of  Mr.  Smith,  came 
forward  and  joined  them,  her  friends  making  a  private 
signal  to  her  not  to  invite  the  aforesaid  gentleman  to 
accompany  them. 

Aunt  Quimby  saw  them  depart,  and,  looking  round, 
said,  "  Why,  Mr.  Smith,  have  the  girls  given  you  the  slip  ? 
But,  to  be  sure,  they  meant  you  to  follow  them." 

Mr.  Smith  signified  that  he  had  no  courage  to  do  so 
without  an  invitation,  and  that  he  feared  he  had  already 
been  tiring  Miss  Cheston. 

"Pho,  pho!"  said  Mrs.  Quimby:  "you  are  quite  too 
humble.  Pluck  up  a  little  spirit,  and  run  after  the  girls." 

"I  believe,"  replied  he,  "I  cannot  take  such  a  liberty." 

"  Then  I'll  call  Captain  Cheston  to  introduce  you  to 
some  more  gentlemen.  Here,  Bromley " 

"]So,  no,"  said  Mr.  Smith,  stopping  her  apprehensively: 


394  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

"I  would  rather  not  intrude  any  farther  upon  his  kind 
ness." 

"  I  declare,  you  are  the  shamefacedest  man  I  ever  saw 
in  my  life  I  Well,  then,  you  can  walk  about,  and  look  at 
the  trees  and  bushes ;  there's  a  fine  large  buttonwood,  and 
there's  a  sassafras ;  or  you  can  go  to  the  edge  of  the  bank, 
and  look  at  the  river,  and  watch  how  the  tide  goes  down 
and  leaves  the  splatter-docks  standing  in  the  mud.  See 
how  thick  they  are  at  low  water !  I  wonder  if  you 
couldn't  count  them?  And  maybe  you'll  see  a  wood- 
shallop  pass  along,  or  maybe  a  coal-barge.  And  who 
knows  but  a  sturgeon  may  jump  out  of  the  water,  and 
turn  head  over  heels  and  back  again  ?  It's  quite  a  hand 
some  sight." 

(rood  Mr.  Smith  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and  walked  about 
and  looked  at  things,  and  probably  counted  the  splatter- 
docks,  and  perhaps  saw  a  fish  jump. 

"  It's  all  bashfulness, — nothing  in  the  world  but  bashful- 
ness,"  pursued  Mrs.  Quimby.  "  That's  the  only  reason 
Mr.  Smith  don't  talk." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  a  very  elegant-looking  girl,  "  I  am 
perfectly  willing  to  impute  the  taciturnity  of  Mr.  Smith 
(and  that  of  all  other  silent  people)  to  modesty.  But  yet 
I  must  say  that,  as  far  as  I  have  had  opportunities  of  ob 
serving,  most  men  above  the  age  of  twenty  have  sufficient 
courage  to  talk,  if  they  know  what  to  say.  When  the 
head  is  well  furnished  with  ideas,  the  tongue  cannot  habit 
ually  refrain  from  giving  them  utterance." 

"That's  a  very  good  observation,"  said  Mrs.  Quimby, 
"  and  suits  me  exactly.  But  as  to  Mr.  Smith,  I  do  believe 
it's  all  bashfulness  with  him.  Between  ourselves  (though 
the  British  consul  warrants  him  respectable),  I  doubt 
whether  he  was  ever  in  such  genteel  society  before  ;  and 
maybe  he  thinks  it  his  duty  to  listen  and  not  to  talk,  poor 


LESLIE]  AUNT  QUIMBY.  395 

man.  But  then  he  ought  to  know  that  in  our  country  he 
need  not  be  afraid  of  nobody,  and  that  here  all  people  are 
equal,  and  one  is  as  good  as  another." 

"Not  exactly,"  said  the  young  lady.  ""We  have  in 
America,  as  in  Europe,  numerous  gradations  of  mind, 
manners,  and  character.  Politically  we  are  equal,  as  far 
as  regards  the  rights  of  citizens  and  the  protection  of  the 
laws ;  and  also  we  have  no  privileged  orders.  But  indi 
vidually  it  is  difficult  for  the  refined  and  the  vulgar,  the 
learned  and  the  ignorant,  the  virtuous  and  the  vicious, 
to  associate  familiarly  and  indiscriminately,  even  in  a  re 
public." 

The  old  lady  looked  mystified  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  proceeded:  "As  you  say,  people's  different.  "We 
can't  be  hail-fellow-well-met  with  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry ; 
but,  for  my  part,  I  think  myself  as  good  as  anybody." 

No  one  contradicted  this  opinion,  and  just  then  a  gen 
tleman  came  up  and  said  to  the  young  lady,  "  Miss  At- 
wood,  allow  me  to  present  you  with  a  sprig  of  the  last 
wild  roses  of  the  season.  I  found  a  few  still  lingering  on 
a  bush  in  a  shady  lane  just  above." 

"  '  I  bid  their  blossoms  in  my  bonnet  wave,'  " 

said  Miss  At  wood,  inserting  them  amid  one  of  the  ribbon 
bows. 

"  Atwood, — Atwood,"  said  Aunt  Quimby :  "  I  know  the 
name  very  well.  Is  not  your  father  Charles  Atwood,  who 
used  to  keep  a  large  wholesale  store  in  Front  Street  ?" 

"  I  have  the  happiness  of  being  that  gentleman's  daugh 
ter,"  replied  the  young  lady. 

"  And  you  live  up  Chestnut  now,  don't  you, — among  the 
fashionables  ?" 

"  My  father's  house  is  up  Chestnut  Street." 

"  Your  mother  was  a  Boss,  wasn't  she  ?" 


396  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

"  Her  maiden  name  was  Ross." 

"  I  thought  so,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Quimby.  "  I  remem 
ber  your  father  very  well.  He  was  the  son  of  Tommy 
Atwood,  who  kept  an  ironmonger's  shop  down  Second 
Street  by  the  New  Market.  Your  grandfather  was  a 
very  obliging  man,  rather  fat.  I  have  often  been  in  hia 
store  when  we  lived  down  that  way.  I  remember  once 
of  buying  a  waffle-iron  of  him,  and  when  I  tried  it  and 
found  it  did  not  make  a  pretty  pattern  on  the  waffles  I 
took  it  back  to  him  to  change  it ;  but,  having  no  other 
pattern,  he  returned  me  the  money  as  soon  as  I  asked 
him.  And  another  time  he  had  the  kitchen  tongs  mended 
for  me  without  charging  a  cent,  when  I  put  him  in  mind 
that  I  had  bought  them  there ;  which  was  certainly  very 
genteel  of  him.  And  no  wonder  he  made  a  fortune, — as 
all  people  do  that  are  obliging  to  their  customers  and 
properly  thankful  to  them."  .  .  . 

When  the  last  carriage  drew  up,  there  was  a  buzz  all 
round :  "  There  is  the  baron, — there  is  the  Baron  von 
Klingenberg, — as  usual,  with  Mrs.  Blake  Bentley  and  her 
daughters." 

After  the  new  arrivals  had  been  conducted  by  the 
Chestons  to  the  house,  and  adjusted  their  dresses,  they 
were  shown  into  what  was  considered  the  drawing-room 
part  of  the  woods,  and  accommodated  with  seats.  But  it 
was  very  evident  that  Mrs.  Blake  Bentley's  party  were 
desirous  of  keeping  chiefly  to  themselves, — talking  very 
loudly  to  each  other,  and  seemingly  resolved  to  attract 
the  attention  of  every  one  around. 

"  Bromley,"  said  Mrs.  Quimby, — having  called  Captain 
Cheston  to  her, — "  is  that  a  baron  ?" 

"  That  is  the  Baron  von  Klingenberg." 

"  "Well,  between  ourselves,  he's  about  as  ugly  a  man  as 
ever  I  laid  my  eyes  on.  At  least  he  looks  so  at  that 


LESLIE]  AUNT  qUIMBY.  397 

distance.  A  clumsy  fellow,  with  high  shoulders  and  a 
round  back,  and  his  face  all  over  hair,  and  as  bandy  as  he 
can  be,  besides.  And  he's  not  a  bit  young,  neither." 

"Barons  never  seem  to  me  young,"  said  Miss  Turret- 
ville,  a  young  lady  of  the  romantic  school,  "  but  counts 
always  do." 

"  I  declare,  even  Mr.  Smith  is  better-looking,"  pursued 
Aunt  Quimby,  fixing  her  eyes  on  the  baron.  "  Don't  you 
think  so,  miss  ?" 

"I  think  nothing  about  him,"  replied  the  fair  Turret 
ville. 

"Mr.  Smith,"  said  Myrtilla,  "perhaps  is  not  actually 
ugly,  and  if  properly  dressed  might  look  tolerably ;  but 
he  is  too  meek,  and  too  weak.  I  wasted  much  time  in 
trying  to  entertain  him  as  I  sat  under  the  tree,  but  he 
only  looked  down  and  simpered,  and  scarcely  ventured 
a  word  in  reply.  One  thing  is  certain,  I  shall  take  no 
further  account  of  him." 

"  Now,  Myrtilla,  it's  a  shame  to  set  your  face  against 
the  poor  man  in  this  way.  I  dare  say  he  is  very  good." 

"  That  is  always  said  of  stupid  people." 

"  No  doubt  it  would  brighten  him  wonderfully  if  you 
were  to  dance  with  him  when  the  ball  begins." 

"  Dance !"  said  Myrtilla ;  "  dance  with  him !  Do  you 
suppose  he  knows  either  a  step  or  a  figure  ?  No,  no ;  I 
shall  take  care  never  to  exhibit  myself  as  Mr.  Smith's 
partner;  and  I  beg  of  you,  Aunt  Quimby,  on  no  account 
to  hint  such  a  thing  to  him.  Besides,  I  am  already  en 
gaged  three  sets  deep."  And  she  ran  away  on  seeing  that 
Mr.  Smith  was  approaching.  .  .  . 

"  This  assemblage,"  said  the  baron,  "  somewhat  reminds 
me  of  the  annual  fetes  I  give  to  my  serfs  in  the  park  that 
surrounds  my  castle  at  the  cataract  of  the  Rhine." 

Miss  Turretville  had  just  come  up,  leaning  on  the  arm 
ii.  34 


393  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [LESLIE 

of  Myrtilla  Cheston.  "  Let  us  try  to  get  nearer  to  the 
baron,"  said  she :  "  he  is  talking  about  castles.  Oh,  I  am 
so  glad  that  I  have  been  introduced  to  him !  I  met  him 
the  other  evening  at  Mrs.  De  Mingle's  select  party,  and 
he  took  my  fan  out  of  my  hand  and  fanned  himself  with 
it.  There  is  certainly  an  elegant  ease  about  European 
gentlemen  that  our  Americans  can  never  acquire." 

"  Where  is  the  ease  and  elegance  of  Mr.  Smith  ?"  thought 
Myrtilla,  as  she  looked  over  at  that  forlorn  individual 
shrinking  behind  Aunt  Quimby. 

"  As  I  was  saying,"  pursued  the  baron,  lolling  back  in 
his  chair  and  applying  to  his  nose  Mrs.  Bentley's  magnifi 
cent  essence-bottle,  "  when  I  give  these  fetes  to  my  serfs  I 
regale  them  with  Westphalia  hams  from  my  own  hunting- 
grounds,  and  with  hock  from  my  own  vineyards." 

"  Dear  me !  ham  and  hock !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Quimby. 

"Baron,"  said  Miss  Turretville,  "I  suppose  you  have 
visited  the  Hartz  Mountains  ?" 

"  My  castle  stands  on  one  of  them." 

"  Charming !     Then  you  have  seen  the  Brocken  ?" 

"  It  is  directly  in  front  of  my  ramparts." 

"  How  delightful !  Do  you  never  imagine  that  on  a 
stormy  night  you  hear  the  witches  riding  through  the 
air,  to  hold  their  revels  on  the  Brocken?  Are  there  still 
brigands  in  the  Black  Forest  ?" 

"  Troops  of  them.  The  Black  Forest  is  just  back  of 
my  own  woods.  The  robbers  were  once  so  audacious  as 
to  attack  my  castle,  and  we  had  a  bloody  fight.  But  we 
at  length  succeeded  in  taking  all  that  were  left  alive." 

"  What  a  pity !  Was  their  captain  anything  like  Charles 
de  Moor  ?" 

"  Just  such  a  man." 

"  Baron,"  observed  Myrtilla,  a  little  mischievously,  "  the 
situation  of  your  castle  must  be  unique, — in  the  midst  of 


LESLIE]  AUNT  QUIMBY.  399 

the  Hartz  Mountains,  at  the  falls  of  the  Rhine,  with  the 
Brocken  in  front,  and  the  Black  Forest  behind." 

"You  dote  on  the  place,  don't  you?"  asked  Miss  Tur- 
retville.  "  Do  you  live  there  always  ?" 

"  No :  only  in  the  hunting-season.  I  am  equally  at 
home  in  all  the  capitals  of  the  Continent.  I  might,  per 
haps,  be  chiefly  at  my  native  place,  Vienna,  only  my 
friend  the  emperor  is  never  happy  but  when  I  am  with 
him  ;  and  his  devotion  to  me  is  rather  overwhelming. 
The  truth  is,  one  gets  surfeited  with  courts  and  kings  and 
princes :  so  I  thought  it  would  be  quite  refreshing  to  take 
a  trip  to  America,  having  great  curiosity  to  see  what  sort 
of  a  place  it  is.  I  recollect,  at  the  last  court  ball,  the  em 
peror  was  teasing  me  to  waltz  with  his  cousin  the  Arch 
duchess  of  Hesse-Hoblingen,  who  he  feared  would  be 
offended  if  I  neglected  her.  But  her  serene  highness 
dances  as  if  she  had  a  cannon-ball  chained  to  each  foot, 
and  so  I  got  off  by  flatly  telling  my  friend  the  emperor 
that  if  women  chose  to  go  to  balls  in  velvet  and  ermine 
and  with  coronets  on  their  heads  they  might  get  princes 
or  some  such  people  to  dance  with  them,  as,  for  my  part, 
it  was  rather  excruciating  to  whirl  about  with  persons  in 
heavy  royal  robes." 

"Is  it  possible?"  exclaimed  Miss  Turretville.  "Did 
you  venture  to  talk  so  to  an  emperor?  Of  course  before 
next  day  you  were  loaded  with  chains  and  immured  in  a 
dungeon,  from  which  I  suppose  you  escaped  by  a  subter 
ranean  passage." 

"  Not  at  all.  My  old  crony  the  emperor  knows  his  man: 
so  he  only  laughed,  and  slapped  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  I 
took  his  arm  and  we  sauntered  off  together  to  the  other 
end  of  the  grand  saloon.  I  think  I  was  in  my  hussar  uni 
form  ;  I  recollect  that  evening  I  broke  my  quizzing-glass 
and  had  to  borrow  the  Princess  of  Saxe-Blinkenbersr's." 


400  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [LESLIE 

""Was  it  very  elegant? — set  round  with  diamonds?" 
asked  Miss  Matilda  Bentley,  putting  up  to  her  face  a  hand 
on  which  glittered  a  valuable  brilliant. 

"  Quite  likely  it  was ;  but  I  never  look  at  diamonds ; 
one  gets  so  tired  of  them.  I  have  not  worn  any  of  mine 
these  seven  years.  I  often  joke  with  my  friend  Pi-ince 
Esterhazy  about  his  diamond  coat,  that  he  will  persist  in 
wearing  on  great  occasions.  Its  glitter  really  incommodes 
my  eyes  when  he  happens  to  be  near  me,  as  he  generally 
is.  Wheneve^  he  moves  you  may  track  him  by  the  gems 
that  drop  from  it,  and  you  may  hear  him  far  off  by  their 
continual  tinkling  as  they  fall." 

"  Only  listen  to  that,  Mr.  Smith !"  said  Aunt  Quimby 
aside  to  her  protege.  "  I  do  not  believe  there  is  such  a 
man  in  the  world  as  that  Hester  Hazy,  with  his  diamond 
coat,  that  he's  telling  all  this  rigmarole  about.  It  sound? 
like  one  of  Mother  Bunch's  tales." 

"  I  rather  think  there  is  such  a  man,"  said  Mr.  Smith. 

"  Nonsense,  Mr.  Smith !  Why,  you're  a  greater  goose 
than  I  supposed." 

Mr.  Smith  assented  by  a  meek  bow. 

Dinner  was  now  announced.  The  gentlemen  conducted 
the  ladies,  and  Aunt  Quimby  led  Mr.  Smith ;  but  she  could 
not  prevail  on  him  to  take  a  seat  beside  her,  near  the  head 
of  the  table,  and  directly  opposite  to  the  baron  and  his 
party.  He  humbly  insisted  on  finding  a  place  for  himself 
very  low  down,  and  seemed  glad  to  get  into  the  neighbor 
hood  of  Captain  Cheston,  who  presided  at  the  foot.  .  .  . 

When  the  dessert  was  set  on,  and  the  flow  of  soul  was 
Hucceeding  to  the  feast  which,  whether  of  reason  or  not, 
had  been  duly  honored,  Mrs.  Quimby  found  leisure  to  look 
around  and  resume  her  colloquy. 

"  I  believe,  madam,  your  name  is  Bentley,"  said  she  to 
the  lofty -looking  personage  directly  opposite. 


LESLIE!  AUNT  QUIMBF.  401 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Blake  Bentley,"  was  the  reply,  with  an  im 
perious  stare  that  was  intended  to  frown  down  all  further 
attempts  at  conversation.  But  Aunt  Quimby  did  not 
comprehend  repulsion,  and  had  never  been  silenced  in  her 
life :  so  she  proceeded, — 

"  I  remember  your  husband  very  well.  He  was  a  son 
of  old  Benny  Bentley,  up  Second  Street,  that  used  to  keep 
the  sign  of  the  Adam  and  Eve,  but  afterwards  changed  it 
to  the  Liberty-Tree.  His  wife  was  a  Blake :  that  was  tho 
way  your  husband  came  by  his  name.  Her  father  was  an 
upholsterer,  and  she  worked  at  the  trade  before  she  was 
married.  She  made  two  bolsters  and  three  pillows  for  me 
at  different  times ;  though  I'm  not  quite  sure  it  was  not 
two  pillows  and  three  bolsters.  He  had  a  brother,  Billy 
Blake,  that  was  a  painter:  so  he  must  have  been  your 
husband's  uncle." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Mrs.  Blake  Bentley,  "  I  don't  under 
stand  what  you  are  talking  about.  But  I'm  very  sure 
there  were  never  any  artist  people  in  the  family." 

"  Oh,  Billy  Blake  was  a  painter  and  glazier  both,"  re 
sumed  Mrs.  Quimby.  "  I  remember  him  as  well  as  if  he 
was  my  own  brother.  We  always  sent  for  him  to  mend 
our  broken  windows.  I  can  see  him  now,  coming  with 
his  glass-box  and  his  putty.  Poor  fellow !  he  was  em 
ployed  to  put  a  new  coat  of  paint  on  Christ  Church 
steeple,  which  we  thought  would  be  a  good  job  for  him ; 
but  the  scaffold  gave  way,  and  he  fell  down  and  broke  his 
leg  "We  lived  right  opposite,  and  saw  him  tumble.  It's 
a  mercy  he  wasn't  killed  right  out.  He  was  carried  home 
on  a  hand-barrow.  I  remember  the  afternoon  as  well  as 
if  it  were  yesterdaj^.  "We  had  a  pot-pie  for  dinner  that 
day ;  and  I  happened  to  have  on  a  new  calico  gown,  a 
green  ground  with  a  yellow  sprig  in  it :  I  have  some  of 
the  pieces  now  in  patchwork." 
ii. — aa  34* 


402  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [LESLIB 

Mrs.  Blake  Bentley  gave  Mrs.  Quimby  a  look  of  un 
qualified  disdain,  and  then,  turning  to  the  baron,  whis 
pered  him  to  say  something  that  might  stop  the  mouth 
of  that  abominable  old  woman.  And,  by  way  of  begin 
ning,  she  observed  aloud,  "  Baron,  what  very  fine  plums 
these  are !" 

"Yes,"  said  the  baron,  helping  himself  to  them  pro 
fusely  ;  "  and  apropos  to  plums,  one  day  when  I  happened 
to  be  dining  with  the  King  of  Prussia  there  were  some  very 
fine  peaches  at  table  (we  were  sitting,  you  know,  trifling 
over  the  dessert),  and  the  king  said  to  me,  '  Klingenberg, 
my  dear  fellow,  let's  try  which  of  us  can  first  break  that 
large  looking-glass  by  shooting  a  peach-stone  at  it.' " 

"Bear  me!  what  a  king!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Quimby. 
"And  now  I  look  at  you  again,  sir  (there  !  just  now,  with 
your  head  turned  to  the  light),  there's  something  in  your 
face  that  puts  me  in  mind  of  Jacob  Stimbel,  our  Dutch 
young  man  that  used  to  live  with  us  and  help  to  do  the 
work.  Mr.  Quimby  bought  him  at  the  wharf  out  of  a 
redemptioner  ship.  He  was  to  serve  us  three  years ;  but 
before  his  time  was  up  he  ran  away  (as  they  often  do), 
and  went  to  Lancaster,  and  set  up  his  old  trade  of  a  car 
penter,  and  married  a  bricklayer's  daughter,  and  got  rich, 
and  built  houses,  and  had  three  or  four  sons.  I  think  I 
heard  that  one  of  them  turned  out  a  pretty  bad  fellow. 
I  can  see  Jake  Stimbel  now,  carrying  the  market -basket 
after  me,  or  scrubbing  the  pavement.  Whenever  I  look 
at  you  I  think  of  him.  Maybe  he  was  some  relation  of 
yours,  as  you  both  came  from  Germany." 

"  A  relation  of  mine,  madam  !"  said  the  baron. 

"  There  now !  there's  Jake  Stimbel  to  the  life !  He  had 
just  that  way  of  stretching  up  his  eyes  and  drawing  down 
his  mouth  when  he  did  not  know  what  to  say, — which 
was  usually  the  case  after  he  stayed  on  errands." 


LESLIE]  AUNT  QUIMBY.  403 

The  baron  contracted  his  brows  and  bit  his  lips. 

"  Fix  your  face  as  you  will,"  continued  Mrs.  Quimby, 
"  you  are  as  like  him  as  you  can  look.  I  am  sure  I  ought 
to  remember  Jacob  Stimbel,  for  I  had  all  the  trouble  of 
teaching  him  to  do  his  work,  besides  learning  him  to  talk 
American ;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  learnt,  he  cleared  him 
self  oif,  as  I  told  you,  and  run  away  from  us." 

The  baron  now  turned  to  Matilda  Bentley,  and  endeav 
ored  to  engage  her  attention  by  an  °arnest  conversation 
in  an  undertone ;  and  Mrs.  Bentley  looked  daggers  at 
Aunt  Quimby,  who  said,  in  a  low  voice,  to  a  lady  that  sat 
next  to  her, — 

"  What  a  pity  Mrs.  Bentley  has  such  a  violent  way  with 
her  eyes !  She'd  be  a  handsome  woman  if  it  was  not  for 
that."  .  .  . 

The  dancers  had  just  taken  their  places  for  the  first  set, 
when  they  were  startled  by  the  shrieks  of  a  woman,  which 
seemed  to  ascend  from  the  river-beach  below.  The  gen 
tlemen  and  many  of  the  ladies  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  bank 
to  ascertain  the  cause ;  and  Aunt  Quimby,  looking  down 
among  the  first,  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  mercy !  if  there  isn't  Mr. 
Smith  a-collaring  the  baron,  and  Miss  Matilda  a-screaming 
for  dear  life !" 

"  The  baron  collaring  Mr.  Smith,  you  mean,"  said  Myr- 
tilla,  approaching  the  bank. 

"  No,  no !  I  mean  as  I  say.  Why,  who'd  think  it  was 
in  Mr.  Smith  to  do  such  a  thing  ?  Oh,  see ! — only  look 
how  he  shakes  him !  And  now  he  gives  him  a  kick. 
Only  think  of  doing  all  that  to  a  baron !  but  I  dare  say 
he  deserves  it.  He  looks  more  like  Jake  Stimbel  than 
ever." 

Captain  Cheston  sprung  down  the  bank  (most  of  the 
other  gentlemen  running  after  him),  and,  immediately 
reaching  the  scene  of  action,  rescued  the  foreigner,  who 


404  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [LESLIE 

seemed  too  frightened  to  oppose  any  effectual  resistance 
to  his  assailant. 

"Mr.  Smith,"  said  Captain  Cheston,  "what  is  the  mean 
ing  of  this  outrage? — and  in  the  presence  of  a  lady,  too !" 

"  The  lady  must  excuse  me,"  replied  Mr.  Smith,  "  for  it 
is  in  her  behalf  I  have  thus  forgotten  myself  so  far  as  to 
chastise  on  the  spot  a  contemptible  villain.  Let  us  con 
vey  Miss  Bentley  up  the  bank,  for  she  seems  greatly 
agitated,  and  I  will  then  explain  to  the  gentlemen  the 
extraordinary  scene  they  have  just  witnessed." 

"  Only  hear  Mr.  Smith,  how  he's  talking  out !"  exclaimed 
Aunt  Quimby.  "  And  there's  the  baron  fellow  putting  up 
his  coat-collar  and  sneaking  off  round  the  corner  of  the 
bank.  I'm  so  glad  he's  turned  out  a  scamp !" 

Having  reached  the  top  of  the  bank,  Matilda  Bentley — 
who  had  nearly  fainted — was  laid  on  a  bench  and  con 
signed  to  the  care  of  her  mother  and  sisters.  A  flood  of 
tears  came  to  her  relief;  and  while  she  was  indulging  in 
them,  Mrs.  Bentley  joined  the  group  who  were  assembled 
round  Mr.  Smith  and  listening  to  his  narrative. 

Mr.  Smith  explained  that  he  knew  this  soi-disant  Baron 
von  Klingenberg  to  be  an  impostor  and  a  swindler.  That 
he  had,  some  years  since,  under  another  name,  made  his 
appearance  in  Paris  as  an  American  gentleman  of  German 
origin  and  large  fortune,  but  soon  gambled  away  all  his 
money.  That  he  afterwards,  under  different  appellations, 
visited  the  principal  cities  of  the  Continent,  but  always 
left  behind  the  reputation  of  a  swindler.  That  he  had 
Been  him  last  in  London,  in  the  capacity  of  valet  to  the 
real  Baron  von  Klingenberg,  who,  intending  a  visit  to  the 
United  States,  had  hired  him  as  being  a  native  of  America 
and  familiar  with  the  country  and  its  customs;  but,  an 
unforeseen  circumstance  having  induced  that  gentleman 
to  relinquish  this  transatlantic  voyage,  his  American  valet 


LESLIE]  AUNT  QUIMBY.  405 

robbed  him  of  a  large  sum  of  money  and  some  valuable 
jewels,  stole  also  the  letters  of  introduction  which  had 
been  obtained  by  the  real  baron,  and  with  them  had  evi 
dently  been  enabled  to  pass  himself  for  his  master.  To 
this  explanation  Mr.  Smith  added  that  while  wandering 
among  the  trees  on  the  edge  of  the  bank  he  had  seen  the 
impostor  on  the  beach  below,  endeavoring  to  persuade 
Miss  Bentley  to  an  elopement  with  him,  proposing  that 
they  should  repair  immediately  to  a  place  in  the  neighbor 
hood  where  the  railroad-cars  stopped  on  their  way  to  New 
York,  and  from  thence  proceed  to  that  city,  adding,  "  You 
know  there  is  no  overtaking  a  railroad-car:  so  all  pursuit 
of  us  will  be  in  vain ;  besides,  when  once  married  all  will 
be  safe,  as  you  are  of  age,  and  mistress  of  your  own  for 
tune."  "  Finding,"  continued  Mr.  Smith,  "  that  he  was 
likely  to  succeed  in  persuading  Miss  Bentley  to  accompany 
him,  1  could  no  longer  restrain  my  indignation,  which 
prompted  me  to  rush  down  the  bank  and  adopt  summary 
measures  in  rescuing  the  young  lady  from  the  hands  of  so 
infamous  a  scoundrel,  whom  nothing  but  my  unwilling 
ness  to  disturb  the  company  prevented  me  from  exposing 
as  soon  as  I  saw  him." 

"  Don't  believe  him !"  screamed  Mrs.  Blake  Bentley. 
"  Mr.  Smith,  indeed ! — Who  is  to  take  his  word  ?  "Who 
knows  what  Mr.  Smith  is  ?" 

"  I  do !"  said  a  voice  from  the  crowd ;  and  there  stepped 
forward  a  gentleman  who  had  arrived  in  a  chaise  with  a 
friend  about  half  an  hour  before.  "  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  him  intimately  in  England,  when  I  was  minister 
to  the  court  of  St.  James's." 

"  Maybe  you  bought  your  tins  at  his  shop  ?"  said  Aunt 
Quimby. 

The  ex-ambassador,  in  a  low  voice,  exchanged  a  few 
words  with  Mr.  Smith,  and  then,  taking  his  hand,  pre- 


406  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

eented  him  as  the  Earl  of  Huntingford,  adding,  "  The  only 
tin  he  deals  in  is  that  produced  by  his  extensive  mines  in 
Cornwall." 

The  whole  company  were  amazed  into  a  silence  of  some 
moments,  after  which  there  was  a  general  buzz  of  favor 
able  remark ;  Captain  Cheston  shook  hands  with  him,  and 
all  the  gentlemen  pressed  forward  to  be  more  particularly 
introduced  to  Lord  Huntingford. 

"Dear  me!"  said  Aunt  Quimby;  "to  think  that  I 
should  have  been  so  sociable  with  a  lord, — and  a  real  one, 
too  !  And  to  think  how  he  drank  tea  at  Billy  Fairfowl's 
in  the  back  parlor,  and  ate  bread-and-butter  just  like  any 
other  man !  And  how  he  saved  Jane  and  picked  up 
Johnny !  I  suppose  I  must  not  speak  to  you  now,  Mr. 
Smith,  for  I  don't  know  how  to  begin  calling  you  my 
lord.  And  you  don't  seem  like  the  same  man,  now  that 
you  can  look  and  talk  like  other  people ;  and — excuse  my 
saying  so — even  your  dress  looks  genteeler." 

"  Call  me  still  Mr.  Smith,  if  you  choose,"  replied  Lord 
Huntingford;  and,  turning  to  Captain  Cheston,  he  con 
tinued,  "  Under  that  name  I  have  had  opportunities  of 
obtaining  much  knowledge  of  your  unique  and  interesting 
country, — knowledge  that  will  be  useful  to  me  all  the 
remainder  of  my  life,  and  that  I  could  not  so  well  have 
acquired  in  my  real  character."  .  .  . 

When  the  fete  was  over,  Lord  Huntingford  returned  to 
the  city  with  his  friend  the  ex-minister.  At  parting  ho 
warmly  expressed  his  delight  at  having  had  an  opportunity 
of  becoming  acquainted  with  Captain  Cheston  and  his 
ladies ;  and  Aunt  Quimby  exclaimed,  "  It's  all  owing  to 
me.  If  it  had  not  been  for  me,  you  might  never  have 
known  them.  I  always  had  the  character  of  bringing 
good  luck  to  people:  so  it's  no  wonder  I'm  so  welcome 
everywhere." 


DODGB]  TOMMY.  407 

TOMMY. 

MARY  A.   DODGE. 

rTt  is  no  easy  matter  to  select  from  among  the  many  witty  and 
piquant  paragraphs  of  the  popular  "  Gail  Hamilton."  Her  aggressive 
warfare  upon  things  as  they  are  has  undoubtedly  had  a  wholesome 
effect  upon  American  society.  In  fact,  common  sense  is  the  ruling 
characteristic  of  her  writings,  but  this  usually  unpalatable  food  is  so 
well  spiced  in  them  as  to  become  a  very  agreeable  mental  provender. 
From  her  many  works  we  select  an  amusing  bit  of  "  Country  Living 
and  Country  Thinking."  Miss  Dodge  is  a  native  of  Hamilton,  Massiv- 
chusetts,  where  she  was  born  in  1838.] 

SOMETIMES  when  I  am  sitting  in  my  room  I  hear  a 
prolonged  "  g-a-a-h !"  Then  I  know  that  Tommy  is  out. 
Tommy  has  escaped  from  his  keepers,  and  is  pursuing  his 
investigations  in  the  world  at  large.  So  I  go  to  the  win 
dow,  and  a  pink  gleam  flashes  up  from  the  grass,  and 
there,  sure  enough,  is  Tommy,  climbing  up  towards  the 
house  with  slow,  tottering,  uncertain  steps,  but  with  a 
face  indicative  of  a  desperate  resolve  to  get  somewhere, 
and  with  both  arms  acting  as  balancing-poles.  Then  I 
call  out,  "Hul-\Q\  little  Tom-mee  /"  and  everything  changes. 
The  arms  drop,  the  feet  stop,  the  resolution  fades  out  of 
his  face.  He  looks  blankly  towards  all  points  of  the 
compass,  and  when  finally  his  eyes  alight  on  me,  what  a 
smile!  An  ordinary  curve  of  his  generous  Irish  lips 
doesn't  seem  at  all  adequate  to  his  feelings.  He  smiles 
latitudinally  and  longitudinally, — away  round  towards 
the  back  of  his  head,  up  to  his  nose,  and  down  into  hja 
chin.  Out  goes  his  right  arm  as  far  as  it  can  stretch, 
with  the  fat  forefinger  extended  towards  me,  and  a  more 
intense  "g-a-a-h!"  bursts  from  the  little  throat.  Then, 
with  renewed  energy,  he  resumes  his  travels.  He  does 


408  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [DoDGK 

very  well  so  long  as  the  ascent  is  gradual,  but  when  it 
becomes  abrupt  his  troubles  begin.  It  isn't  the  tumbling 
down,  however,  that  hurts  him ;  like  all  the  rest  of  us, 
he  can  do  that  very  easily;  but  it  is  the  getting  up  again 
thut  plays  the  mischief.  He  rears  himself  on  his  toes  and 
fingers,  and  there  he  stands,  a  round-backed  little  qu^u- 
ruped,  utterly  at  a  loss  what  to  do  next ;  for  Tommy  does 
not  yet  understand  the  use  of  his  knees.  If  he  thinks  I 
am  looking  at  him,  he  will  stand  there  and  squeal  till 
he  becomes  convinced  that  I  have  gone  away  and  left  him 
to  his  own  resources,  which  I  generally  do;  when  he 
drops,  or  rolls,  or  squirms  along,  in  some  illegal  and  un- 
anatomical  way,  and  at  last  stands  radiant  in  the  porch. 
Then  he  steers  straightway  to  the  side-lights.  Those 
side-lights  are  an  unfailing  source  of  admiring  wonder. 
If  somebody  is  on  the  opposite  side  to  play  bo-peep,  he  is 
ecstatic.  If  nobody  is  there,  he  is  calmly  blissful. 

Tommy  is  a  great  nuisance  during  the  "  fall  cleaning." 
He  is  always  getting  into  the  soapsuds  and  hot  water 
generally.  I  volunteered  once  to  take  charge  of  him.  I 
was  going  to  tack  down  a  carpet.  Tommy  looked  on  in 
amazement.  Then  he  got  down  on  the  floor  and  tried  to 
take  the  tacks  in  his  soft  fingers.  I  rapped  the  soft  fingers 
with  my  carpet-hammer.  He  gave  one  yell,  and  drew 
them  back.  I  kept  on  with  my  work.  In  a  minute  the 
soft  fingers  were  creeping  in  among  the  tacks.  Anothei 
rap,  another  yell,  another  creep, — rap  I  yell !  creep, — till  I 
grew  tired  of  rapping,  if  he  did  not  of  being  rapped.  I 
suppose  I  didn't  hit  quite  hard  enough ;  but  one  doesn't 
like  to  take  liberties  with  other  people's  babies.  Then  I 
took  hold  of  him  by  the  back  of  his  frock  with  one  hand, 
carried  him,  with  head  and  feet  hanging,  to  the  farthest 
side  of  the  room,  and  deposited  him  in  a  corner.  I  had 
hardly  driven  one  tack  in,  before  the  little  rascal  was 


DODGE]  TOMMY.  409 

rounding  up  his  back  again  under  my  very  eyes.  I 
gathered  him  up  once  more,  and  dumped  him  in  the 
corner  as  before.  Evidently  it  was  fine  fun  for  him. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  alacrity  with  which  he  crawled 
over  to  me.  In  despair,  I  at  length  put  up  the  tacks,  and 
proceeded  to  arrange  some  curtain-fixtures.  Tommy  was 
suspiciously  still  for  several  minutes,  and  when  I  went  to 
ascertain  the  cause  I  found  he  had  got  a  bucket  of  sea- 
sand  that  had  been  left  in  the  room,  had  emptied  it  on 
the  carpet,  and  was  flinging  it  about  in  royal  style.  I 
regretted  to  stop  his  enjoyment,  for  I  have  a  fondness  for 
sand  myself,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  be  appropriate  under 
the  circumstances,  and  I  scooped  it  up  as  well  as  I  could, 
and  put  it  beyond  his  reach.  The  next  time  I  looked  at 
him,  which  was  in  about  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  he  was  ex 
erting  himself  to  the  utmost  in  pushing  a  large  pitcher  off 
the  lower  part  of  the  wash-hand-stand.  I  caught  it  just  as 
it  was  toppling  over  the  brink,  and  before  I  could  get  that 
out  of  harm's  way  he  had  tumbled  a  writing-desk  out  of 
a  chair,  scattering  pens,  ink,  and  paper  in  all  directions. 
I  saw  at  once  that  if  I  was  going  to  take  care  of  Tommy 
I  must  "  give  my  mind  to  it."  I  took  him  into  the  kitchen, 
as  the  place  best  prepared  to  resist  his  incursions.  He 
struck  a  bee-line  for  the  stove,  and  covered  himself  with 
crock.  I  couldn't  undertake  to  wash  him,  but  I  mopped 
him  up  a  little,  put  on  his  hat,  and  took  him  out  to  walk. 
Everything  went  on  blithely  till  I  turned  to  go  home; 
then  he  raised  the  standard  of  rebellion.  Tommy  seldom 
cries,  but  he  has  a  gamut  of  most  surprising  squeals  at  his 
command.  On  the  present  occasion  he  exhibited  them  in 
wonderful  variety  and  with  remarkable  compass  of  sound. 
I  might  say  every  step  was  a  squeal.  The  neighborhood 
rushed  to  the  windows,  not  unreasonably  fearing  a  repeti 
tion  of  "  the  babes  in  the  wood."  I  covered  his  eyes,  and 
II.— s  35 


410  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [DODGE 

swung  him  around  rapidly  three  or  four  times,  to  bewilder 
him  so  that  he  should  not  know  which  way  he  was  going. 
But  Tommy  was  too  old  a  bird  to  be  caught  by  such  chaff. 
He  pulled  backward,  sidewise,  every  way  but  the  way  he 
ought  to  have  pulled.  I  sat  down  on  the  root  of  an  old 
elm-tree,  and  gazed  at  him  in  silent  despair.  He  smiled 
back  at  me  serene  as  a  summer  morning,  but  the  moment 
I  showed  symptoms  of  starting  he  showed  symptoms  of 
squealing,  till  at  length  I  conquered  my  compunctions, 
took  him  up  in  my  arms,  crock  and  all,  and  carried  him 
home. 

Tommy  has  a  little  black  kitten,  and  the  understanding 
between  them  is  wonderful  to  see.  Whenever  you  see 
Tommy's  pink  dress,  you  may  be  sure  the  kitty's  glossy 
fur  is  not  far  off ;  and  she  whisks  around  him  and  tanta 
lizes  him  in  the  most  provoking  manner.  Sometimes  they 
both  run  a  steeple-chase  after  her  tail :  kitty  is  too  wise  by 
far  to  let  anything  so  valuable  as  her  tail  get  into  the 
clutch  of  those  undiscriminating  fingei*s ;  but  she  frisks 
and  gambols  around  him  delightfully,  and  Tommy  turns, 
too,  as  fast  as  he  can,  and  doesn't  know  that  the  flashing 
tail  is  never  to  be  got  hold  of  by  him.  It  is  surprising 
how  slowly  children  develop  compared  with  other  animals. 
Tommy's  kitten  is  a  good  deal  younger  than  he,  yet  she 
makes  nothing  of  climbing  up  to  the  ridge-pole  of  the 
barn  after  the  doves,  which  she  never  catches,  or  scudding 
up  the  tall  cherry-tree  and  peeping  down  at  Tommy  from 
the  upper  branches.  I  believe  she  does  it  to  excite  his 
envy. 

Tommy  is  intimate  only  with  the  kitten,  but  he  makes 
friends  with  the  chickens,  and  cultivates  the  acquaintance 
of  the  pig  by  throwing  the  clothes-pins  over  into  his  pen. 
An  old  rooster,  nearly  as  tall  as  himself,  seems  to  have 
attracted  his  especial  regard.  His  efforts  to  catch  him  aro 


DODGB]  TOMMY.  411 

persistent,  though  as  yet  unsuccessful.  He  evidently  has 
perfect  faith  in  his  ultimate  success,  however,  and  every 
time  Booster  heaves  in  sight  Tommy  makes  a  lurch  after 
him  with  both  arms  extended.  Booster  understands  per 
fectly  how  matters  stand,  and  preserves  a  dignified  com 
posure  till  Tommy  gets  within  a  foot  of  him,  when  he 
leisurely  withdraws.  Tommy  stops  a  moment,  takes  a 
survey,  and  goes  at  it  again. 

The  days,  and  the  weeks,  and  the  months  pass  on,  and 
Tommy's  rich  Irish  blood  ripens  in  the  summer  sunshine. 
His  tottering  legs  grow  firmer.  His  dimpled  arms  fore 
bode  strength.  As  I  sit  at  my  window,  I  see  the  apple- 
trees  in  the  orchard  grow  white  with  bloom,  and  under 
them  my  best  silk  umbrella  is  marching  about,  as  the  courts 
say,  without  any  visible  means  of  support.  While  I  gaze 
in  astonishment,  it  suddenly  gives  a  lurch,  and  reveals 
Tommy  under  its  capacious  dome  in  a  seventh  heaven  of 
ecstasy.  Or  I  am  startled,  while  sitting  alone  in  the  warm 
afternoon,  by  seeing  a  blue  eye — just  a  naked,  human 
eye — peering  in  through  the  lowest  chink  of  a  closed 
blind  opening  on  the  porch.  It  turns  out  to  belong  to 
Tommy,  who  by  standing  on  tiptoe  in  the  porch  can  just 
get  one  eye  in  range.  Now  I  see  him  trotting  down  tho 
lane  alone,  clad  in  a  gay  scarlet  frock,  et  prceterea  nihil,  his 
fat  little  legs  brown  with  dirt,  his  white  neck,  face,  and 
arms  mottled  with  the  same,  and  his  curly  hair  a  jungle. 
From  his  abstracted  and  eager  manner,  I  infer  that  he  is 
bent  on  some  grave  errand.  "Where  going,  Tommy?"  I 
call,  suspicious  of  a  secret  expedition.  "  O-gah-gi-bah !" 
shouts  Tommy,  without  slackening  his  pace.  Out  comes 
his  mother,  with  a  twig,  and  gives  chase.  Tommy  be 
comes  cognizant  of  a  fire  in  the  rear,  and  his  eager  walk 
tumbles  into  a  trot,  for  he  feels  that  he  is  verily  guilty, 
and  knows  that  he  is  easily  accessible ;  but  fate  overtakes 


412  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [DoDGK 

him,  and  he  is  borne  ignominiously  back.  Then  his 
mother  explains  that  she  had  just  been  trying  on  his  new 
frock,  and  had  remarked  that  she  must  get  some  buttons, 
and  so  Tommy  had  stolen  away  and  was  going  "over- 
shop-get-buttons." 

Accidents,  we  are  told,  will  happen  in  the  best  of  fami 
lies,  and  Tommy  awoke  one  morning  and  found  that  his 
nose  was  out  of  joint.  A  little,  lumpy  baby  sister  had 
sadly  deranged  the  machinery  of  his  life,  and  he  didn't 
know  what  to  make  of  it.  Formerly,  when  he  stole  out 
doors  unawares,  his  pretty  young  mother  used  to  run  out 
after  him  and  toss  him  up  in  her  stout,  bare  arms  into  the 
house.  Now  an  old  woman  in  a  cap  came,  and  brought 
her  hand  down  very  heavily  on  his  sensitiveness.  Then, 
too,  he  was  ousted  out  of  his  cradle  by  the  interloper,  and 
his  life  was  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  a  burden  to  him. 
But  his  good  nature  never  failed.  To  be  sure,  he  would 
throw  the  plates,  and  the  flat-irons,  and  the  coal,  into  the 
cradle,  but  it  was  probably  "  all  in  fun."  When  I  went  in 
to  see  "  the  baby,"  the  first  time,  he  pointed  to  it  with 
great  exultation,  and,  as  soon  as  the  blanket  was  rolled 
down,  first  poked  his  finger  into  her  eyes,  and  then,  quick 
as  thought,  gave  her  a  rousing  slap  on  the  cheek.  Baby 
screamed,  as  she  had  a  right  to  do,  and  Tommy  had  the  slap 
returned  with  compound  interest,  as  he  richly  deserved. 

Yet,  in  senseless,  instinctive  fashion,  in  his  wild,  Irish 
way,  Tommy  loved  his  baby  sister.  The  little  life  drooped 
and  died  while  the  roses  were  yet  in  bloom.  Tommy's 
baby  sister  was  borne  to  her  burial,  and  Tommy's  heart 
was  troubled  with  a  blind  fear.  What  it  was  he  did  not 
know,  but  something  was  wrong.  He  lingered  about  the 
cradle  where  she  lay,  and  when  the  tiny  form  was  taken 
up  to  be  placed  in  the  coffin  he  plucked  wildly  at  her 
white  robe,  crying  bitterly,  and  refused  to  be  comforted 


DODGE]  TOMMY.  413 

Darling  little  Tommy!  The  very  thought  of  your 
happy  face,  white  and  soft,  and  fine  as  a  lily-cup,  of  your 
merry  blue  eyes,  with  their  long,  curling,  black  eyelashes, 
of  your  bungling  little  feet  and  your  meddlesome  little 
fingers,  warms  my  heart.  If  I  could  have  my  way,  you 
should  always  stay  just  as  you  are  now,  only  having  your 
face  washed  semi-occasionally.  But  I  cannot  have  my 
way,  and  you  will  by  and  by  run  to  school  barefoot,  and 
wear  blue  overalls,  and  smoke  bad  tobacco  in  a  dingy  pipe, 
and  carry  a  hod,  and  vote  the  "  Dimmocratic  ticket." 

So  I  said  last  year,  with  foolish  human  prophecy,  and 
now,  behold !  there  is  no  Democratic  ticket  to  vote,  and 
there  is  no  Tommy  to  vote  it.  For  Tommy  is  gone. 
Never  any  more  while  I  live  shall  the  gleam  of  his  shining 
hair  light  up  the  greensward,  or  the  irregular  thumping 
of  his  copper-toed  shoes  bring  music  to  my  ears  as  he 
stumbles  up  the  yard  and  clatters  across  the  kitchen  floor. 
A  dreamy  October  morning,  all  gold  ano»  amethyst  with 
the  haze  of  the  Indian  summer,  took  him  beyond  my 
eight  over  the  blue  waters  to  the  fair  island  of  his  fathers, 
which  has  been  to  me  ever  since  a  "  summer  isle  of  Eden, 
lying  in  dark  purple  spheres  of  sea ;"  and  it  seemed  to  me 
for  the  moment  that  nothing  would  be  so  delightful, 
nothing  looked  so  winning,  as  to  leave  this  surging,  eager, 
battling  land,  and  sail  over  the  sea  with  Tommy,  and  live 
quietly  in  a  little  brown  cottage  on  the  border  of  Donegal 
bog,  with  a  well-burnt  pipe  in  the  cupboard,  plenty  of 
peat  on  the  fire,  potatoes  smoking  in  the  ashes,  a  fine  fat 
pig  in  the  corner,  and  nothing  to  be  careful  or  troubled 
about  all  the  days  of  my  life. 

"While  I  grieve  for  Tommy  gone,  I  reflect  that  he  would 

probably  be  a  little  pest  if  he  had  stayed.     Already  his 

feet  were  swift  to  do  mischief.     His  rosy  lips  could  swear 

you  as  round  an  oath  as  any  Flanders  soldiers,  and  he  beat 

ii.  35* 


414  BEST  AMERICA*  AUTHORS.  [Doer 

the  calf,  and  chased  the  hens,  and  worried  the  sheep,  and 
poked  the  cow,  and  pulled  the  cat's  tail,  and  worked  the 
key  out  of  the  door  and  lost  it,  and  was  perpetually  carry 
ing  off  the  hoe  and  making  the  gravel  fly,  and  surrepti 
tiously  possessing  himself  of  the  whip.  Fumble,  rattle, 
— Tommy  is  at  the  door;  creak,  creak, — he  has  got  it 
open ;  thump,  thump,  thump, — he  is  making  for  the  whip  ; 
silence, — he  is  getting  it  down.  "  Tommy !  Tomm^  ! 
don't  touch  the  whip,  will  you  ?"  "  No,"  says  Tommy, 
stoutly,  in  the  very  act  of  marching  off  with  it  firmly 
clasped  in  both  hands,  brandishing  it  right  and  left,  and 
whisking  every  living  thing,  and  dead  one  too,  that  came 
in  his  way,  or  that  didn't,  either,  for  that  matter. 

In  the  warm,  moonlight  evening,  Tommy  sits  again  in 
a  high  chair  in  the  porch,  and  his  mother  tells  me  of  the 
home  to  which  she  is  going  in  Ireland,  and  of  the  schools 
which  Tommy  will  attend,  and  the  books  that  he  will 
study,  and  she  promises  to  send  me  one  to  look  at ;  but  I 
greatly  fear  it  will  never  reach  me.  As  the  conversation 
proceeds,  I  am  driven  into  a  corner  and  forced  to  admit 
that  I  do  not  reckon  among  my  acquisitions  an  acquaint 
ance  with  the  Irish  language.  She  is  silent  for  a  moment, 
and  never  fails  in  the  politeness  of  her  race ;  but  I  do  not 
think  I  shall  ever  quite  recover  the  ground  which  that 
revelation  cost  me.  I  fear  me  my  reputation  is  perma 
nently  lowered.  Tommy,  climbing  in  and  out  of  his  high 
chair,  up  his  mother's  neck,  and  down  the  porch  steps, 
wiggling  everywhere  and  clawing  everything,  takes  part 
in  the  pleasant  chat.  "  Where  are  you  going,  Thomas,  by 
and  by  ?"  asks  his  mother,  designing  to  show  his  paces. 
"  K-t-ty,  k-t-ty,"  gurgles  Tommy,  making  a  dive  after  the 
kitten.  "Now,  Thomas,"  says  she,  drawing  him  back 
with  a  strong  arm,  "tell  'em  where  you're  going  next 
month,  in  a  ship,  you  know,  over  the  water."  "  Cow," 


DODGE]  TOMMY. 

says  Tommy,  perversely,  having  a  mortal  aversion  to 
water,  wholesale  and  retail.  But  I  know  a  quick  way  to 
his  tongue.  "  Tommy,  tell  me  where  you  are  going,  and 
I'll  give  you  a  sugar-plum."  "  Irle,"  says  he,  with  a  fine 
brogue,  rapidly  coming  to  his  senses.  "  An  tell  'em 
what'll  your  gran'father  be  sayin'  to  you  when  he  seefa 
you."  A  pink  peppermint  in  my  hand  becoming  visible 
to  the  naked  eye,  he  answers,  promptly,  "Ye!  gal  Tom! 
wi !  ko !  yah !  bk !"  which,  being  interpreted,  means, 
"  Here  comes  Tom  with  the  clock  on  his  back,"  referring 
to  a  clock  which  is  to  be  carried  with  them,  and  which 
he  evidently  believes  will  be  his  own  personal  luggage. 
Sometimes  his  answer  turns  into  "  Here's  Tom,  coming  in 
at  the  door !"  which  seems  to  me  to  indicate  a  decided 
dramatic  power.  "  Tommy,"  I  say,  pathetically,  "  I  am 
afraid  you  will  forget  all  about  me  when  you  go  to  Ire 
land."  "  Iss,"  roars  Tommy,  backing  out  from  under  his 
chair.  "  But  I  want  you  not  to  forget.  Stand  still,  now, 
and  tell  me  what  my  name  is."  "  Yah !"  shouts  Tommy, 
jumping  up  and  down.  "Yah  what?"  "Yah  Yah!" 
And  even  when  the  last  morning  comes, — when  Tommy, 
gay  with  scarlet  frock  and  feather  and  "  bran-new"  shoes, 
is  borne  in  his  mother's  arms  up  the  steps  to  say  his  last 
good-by, — the  hard-hearted  little  pagan  is  utterly  unmoved 
by  her  tears,  and  only  jounces  up  and  down,  and  cries, 
"Kide!  Horse!"  and,  in  virtue  of  a  dough-nut  in  each 
fist,  marches  off  for  fatherland,  triumphant. 

But  Ireland  is  glorified  henceforth.  I  see  no  more  there 
want,  nor  squalor,  nor  suffering,  but  verdurous  meadow - 
depths,  and  a  little  child  crowned  with  myrtle  and  ar 
butus  flinging  around  him  the  crushed  wealth  of  daisy 
and  prim-roses  and  gold-cups,  while  his  upturned  face, 
shining  against  the  morning  sun,  is  as  it  were  the  face  of 
an  angel. 


416  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.    [WASHINOTON 

FAREWELL  ADDRESS. 

GEORGE   WASHINGTON. 

i  [Of  Washington  biographically  we  have  nothing  to  say.  There 
must  he  very  few  of  our  readers  who  are  not  familiar  with  his  biog- 
raphy.  He  takes  a  position  in  general  literature  mainly  by  his  "  Fare 
well  Address  to  the  People  of  the  United  States,"  one  of  the  most 
notable  and  valuable  documents  that  was  ever  issued  by  the  leader 
of  a  state,  and  one  which,  while  the  United  States  exists,  must  ever 
remain  a  portion  of  its  cherished  literary  treasures.  It  is  written  in  a 
clear,  eloquent,  and  forcible  manner,  and  the  advice  which  it  gives,  if 
it  had  had  proper  weight  upon  the  minds  of  the  American  people, 
might  have  saved  us  from  the  untold  horrors  of  the  civil  war.] 

.  .  .  THE  unity  of  government,  which  constitutes  you 
one  people,  is  also  now  dear  to  you.  It  is  justly  so ;  for 
it  is  a  main  pillar  in  the  edifice  of  your  real  independence, 
— the  support  of  your  tranquillity  at  home ;  your  peace 
abroad ;  of  your  safety ;  of  your  prosperity ;  of  that  very 
liberty  which  you  so  highly  prize.  But,  as  it  is  easy  to 
foresee  that,  from  different  causes  and  from  different  quar 
ters,  much  pains  will  be  taken,  many  artifices  employed, 
to  weaken  in  your  minds  the  conviction  of  this  truth  ;  as 
this  is  the  point  in  your  political  fortress  against  which 
the  batteries  of  internal  and  external  enemies  will  be 
most  constantly  and  actively,  though  often  covertly  and 
insidiously,  directed,  it  is  of  infinite  moment  that  you 
should  properly  estimate  the  immense  value  of  your  na 
tional  union  to  your  collective  and  individual  happiness; 
that  you  should  cherish  a  cordial,  habitual,  and  immova 
ble  attachment  to  it,  accustoming  yourselves  to  think 
and  speak  of  it  as  of  the  palladium  of  your  political  safety 
and  prosperity ;  watching  for  its  preservation  with  jeal 
ous  anxiety;  discountenancing  whatever  may  suggest 


WASHINGTON]  FAREWELL  ADDRESS.  417 

oven  a  suspicion  that  it  can  in  any  event  be  abandoned , 
and  indignantly  frowning  upon  the  first  dawning  of  every 
attempt  to  alienate  any  portion  of  our  country  from  the 
rest,  or  to  enfeeble  the  sacred  ties  which  now  link  together 
the  various  parts.  .  .  . 

To  the  efficacy  and  permanency  of  your  union,  a  gov 
ernment  for  the  whole  is  indispensable.  ~No  alliances, 
however  strict,  between  the  parts  can  be  an  adequate  sub 
stitute  :  they  must  inevitably  experience  the  infractions 
and  interruptions  which  all  alliances  in  all  times  have  ex 
perienced.  Sensible  of  this  momentous  truth,  you  have 
improved  upon  your  first  essay,  by  the  adoption  of  a 
Constitution  of  government  better  calculated  than  your 
former  for  an  intimate  union,  and  for  the  efficacious  man 
agement  of  your  common  concerns.  This  government, 
the  offspring  of  our  own  choice,  uninfluenced  and  unawed, 
adopted  upon  full  investigation  and  mature  deliberation, 
completely  free  in  its  principles,  in  the  distribution  of 
its  powers,  uniting  security  with  energy,  and  containing 
within  itself  a  provision  for  its  own  amendment,  has  a 
just  claim  to  your  confidence  and  your  support.  Respect 
for  its  authority,  compliance  with  its  laws,  acquiescence 
in  its  measures,  are  duties  enjoined  by  the  fundamental 
maxims  of  true  liberty.  The  basis  of  our  political  sys 
tems  is  the  right  of  the  people  to  make  and  to  alter  their 
Constitutions  of  government.  But  the  Constitution  which 
at  any  time  exists,  till  changed  by  an  explicit  and  authen 
tic-  act  of  the  whole  people,  is  sacredly  obligatory  upon 
all.  The  very  idea  of  the  power  and  the  right  of  the 
people  to  establish  government,  presupposes  the  duty  of 
every  individual  to  obey  the  established  government. 

All  obstructions  to  the  execution  of  the  laws,  all  com 
binations  and  associations,  under  whatever  plausible  char 
acter,  with  the  real  design  to  direct,  control,  counteract, 
ii.— bb 


418  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.     [WASHINGTON 

or  awe  the  regular  deliberation  and  action  of  the  con 
stituted  authorities,  are  destructive  of  this  fundamental 
principle,  and  of  fatal  tendency.  They  serve  to  organize 
faction,  to  give  it  an  artificial  and  extraordinary  force,  to 
put  in  the  place  of  the  delegated  will  of  the  nation  the 
will  of  a  party,  often  a  small  but  artful  and  enterprising 
minority  of  the  community ;  and,  according  to  the  alter 
nate  triumphs  of  different  parties,  to  make  the  public 
administration  the  mirror  of  the  ill-concerted  and  incon 
gruous  projects  of  faction,  rather  than  the  organ  of  con 
sistent  and  wholesome  plans  digested  by  common  councils 
and  modified  by  mutual  interests.  However  combinations 
or  associations  of  the  above  description  may  now  and  then 
answer  popular  ends,  they  are  likely,  in  the  course  of 
time  and  things,  to  become  potent  engines  by  which  cun 
ning,  ambitious,  and  unprincipled  men  will  be  enabled  to 
subvert  the  power  of  the  people,  and  to  usurp  for  them 
selves  the  reins  of  government ;  destroying  afterwards 
the  very  engines  which  have  lifted  them  to  unjust  do 
minion. 

Towards  the  preservation  of  your  government  and  the 
permanency  of  your  present  happy  state,  it  is  requisite 
not  only  that  you  steadily  discountenance  irregular  oppo 
sition  to  its  acknowledged  authority,  but  also  that  you 
resist  with  care  the  spirit  of  innovation  upon  its  princi 
ples,  however  specious  the  pretexts.  One  method  of 
assault  may  be  to  effect,  in  the  forms  of  the  Constitution, 
alterations  which  will  impair  the  energy  of  the  system, 
and  thus  to  undermine  what  cannot  be  directly  over 
thrown.  In  all  the  changes  to  which  you  may  be  invited, 
remember  that  time  and  habit  are  at  least  as  necessary  to 
fix  the  true  character  of  governments  as  of  other  human 
institutions;  that  experience  is  the  surest  standard  by 
which  to  test  the  real  tendency  of  the  existing  Constitu- 


WASHINGTON]          FAREWELL  ADDRESS.  419 

tion  of  a  country ;  that  facility  in  changes,  upon  the  credit 
of  mere  hypothesis  and  opinion,  exposes  to  perpetual 
change,  from  the  endless  variety  of  hypothesis  and  opin 
ion  ;  and  remember,  especially,  that  for  the  efficient  man 
agement  of  your  common  interests  in  a  country  so  exten 
sive  as  ours,  a  government  of  as  much  vigor  as  is  consistent 
with  the  perfect  security  of  liberty  is  indispensable.  Lib 
erty  itself  will  find  in  such  a  government,  with  powers 
properly  distributed  and  adjusted,  its  surest  guardian.  It 
is,  indeed,  little  else  than  a  name,  where  the  government 
is  too  feeble  to  withstand  the  enterprises  of  faction,  to 
confine  each  member  of  the  society  within  the  limits 
prescribed  by  the  laws,  and  to  maintain  all  in  the  secure 
and  tranquil  enjoyment  of  the  rights  of  person  and  prop 
erty.  .  .  . 

Of  all  the  dispositions  and  habits  which  lead  to  political 
prosperity,  religion  and  morality  are  indispensable  sup 
ports.  In  vain  would  that  man  claim  the  tribute  of  pa 
triotism,  who  should  labor  to  subvert  these  great  pillars 
of  human  happiness,  these  firmest  props  of  the  duties  of 
men  and  citizens.  The  mere  politician,  equally  with  the 
pious  man,  ought  to  respect  and  to  cherish  them.  A  vol 
ume  could  not  trace  all  their  connections  with  private 
and  public  felicity.  Let  it  simply  be  asked,  where  is  the 
security  for  property,  for  reputation,  for  life,  if  the  sense 
of  religious  obligation  desert  the  oaths  which  are  the  in 
struments  of  investigation  in  the  courts  of  justice?  And 
let  us  with  caution  indulge  the  supposition  that  morality 
can  be  maintained  without  religion.  Whatever  may  bo 
conceded  to  the  influence  of  refined  education  on  minds 
of  peculiar  structure,  reason  and  experience  both  forbid 
us  to  expect  that  national  morality  can  prevail  in  exclu 
sion  of  religious  principle. 

'Tis   substantially   true    that  virtue  or  morality  is  a 


420  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [ROLLINS 

necessary  spring  of  popular  government.  The  rule,  in 
deed,  extends  with  more  or  less  force  to  every  species  of 
free  government.  Who  that  is  a  sincere  friend  to  it  can 
look  with  indifference  upon  attempts  to  shake  the  founda 
tion  of  the  fabric  ? 

Promote,  then,  as  an  object  of  primary  importance, 
institutions  for  the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge.  In 
proportion  as  the  structure  of  a  government  gives  force 
to  public  opinion,  it  is  essential  that  public  opinion  should 
be  enlightened.  .  .  . 


WINTER  PLEASURES. 

E.  H.   ROLLINS. 

["New  England  Bygones,"  the  work  of  Ellen  H.  Rollins,  a  lady 
"  to  the  manner  horn,"  is  so  dainty  and  full  in  its  picturesque  descrip 
tions  of  home  life  in  the  country  that  it  is  well  worthy  of  the  popular 
favor  into  which  it  has  risen.  From  its  many  interesting  chapters  we 
select  one  descriptive  of  winter  life  and  scenery  in  New  England, 
which  is  partly  good  for  all  time,  partly  has  in  it  the  flavor  of  a  past 
which  has  been  left  behind  in  the  rapid  course  of  American  progress 
Mrs.  Rollins  was  born  in  Wakefield,  New  Hampshire,  in  1831,  and 
died  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania,  in  1881.] 

How  utterly  transforming  to  the  country  is  the  first 
positive  snow-fall  of  winter  1  It  is  a  thing  of  life ;  it 
clings  and  hangs  everywhere.  Its  great,  fluffy  ridges  and 
folds  put  out  of  sight  fences  and  rocks  and  hillocks  and 
highways,  and  bleach  the  gray  surface  of  the  landscape 
into  a  dazzling  whiteness.  Under  this  new  veneering 
the  most  untidy  farm-houses  are  beautiful,  and  the  worst- 
tilled  fields  as  good  as  the  best.  "Waking  up  into  such  a 
change  some  winter  morning  is  like  going  into  a  new 


ROLLINS]  WINTER  PLEASURES.  421 

•world.     It  is  coming  out  from  the  gray  mourning  of  the 
almost  dead  year  into  a  sublime  white  silence. 

Every  country-born  person  can  recall  such  greeting  of 
an  early  snow,  to  meet  which  he  has  gone  forth  with 
elastic  step  and  heart.  Slowly  and  picturesquely  motion 
is  thrust  upon  the  scene.  Walkers,  scuffling  through  the 
light  snow,  trail  slender  paths  along;  smoke  coils  from 
chimneys ;  cattle  are  let  into  the  sunny  barn-yards ;  life 
spills  out  from  the  farm-houses ;  troughs  are  chopped  free 
from  ice ;  men  begin  to  hack  at  the  wood-piles  and  draw 
water  from  the  wells ;  teams  are  harnessed ;  children  start 
for  school ;  the  new  landscape  is  alive  with  workers, 
thrust  out  with  startling  distinctness  from  its  snow  back 
ground. 

Directly  off  from  roofs  and  fences  and  rocks  and  higher 
hillocks,  with  the  sun's  march,  slips  this  snow  covering, 
and  from  the  beautiful,  evanescent  picture  arises  another, 
with  added  warmth  and  life  and  color.  To  one  driving 
through  a  forest  at  such  a  time  it  is  as  if  fairies  had 
been  at  work  and  laden  its  minutest  twigs  with  a  rare 
white  burden.  Snow-clad  old  wood,  through  which  I 
passed  years  ago  on  my  way  to  my  grandfather's  farm, 
you  are  as  lovely  in  memory  as  you  were  in  reality  then. 
It  is  early  morning.  The  air  seems  to  crackle  with  the 
magic  of  frost-work.  Fleecy  fringes  are  falling  from  the 
overburdened  branches  and  fling  over  me  great,  foam- 
like  flakes;  the  horses'  hoofs  sink  deep  and  noiselessly. 
Footprints  of  wild  animals  are  thick  in  the  wood,  and  all 
along  the  wayside  are  tracks  of  squirrels,  rabbits,  and 
such  harmless  things.  Loaded  teams  grow  frequent,  and 
sleighs  fly  past.  The  sound  of  bells  is  crisp  and  loud. 
Betsy  pricks  up  her  ears  and  flings  out  a  spray -like  cloud 
on  either  side.  The  little  dog  following  after  shoots  over 
the  wall,  bounding  neck  deep  into  the  unbroken  snow 
n.  36 


422  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [ROLLINS 

sniffs  at  the  tiny  footmarks  of  game,  plunges  into  the 
wood,  and  I  hear  him  barking  shortly  after  far  ahead. 
Twigs  begin  to  snap.  There  is  a  crackle  through  the 
wood,  the  sun  is  climbing  up,  the  snow  is  melting,  and, 
falling  from  the  trees,  sinks  with  a  fluffy  sound  into  the 
cooler  bed  below.  Sharp  and  distinct  is  the  voice  of  this 
dissolving  panorama.  As  the  sun  gets  power,  the  snow 
garment  shrinks,  and  all  of  a  sudden  it  glides  off  from  the 
grim  old  wood. 

Often  a  mist  or  a  rain,  coming  upon  the  newly-fallen 
snow,  crystallizes  it  into  solid  shapes,  and  the  sun  gives 
to  this  frost-work  a  bewildering  beauty.  Nothing  could 
surpass  my  old  wood  thus  clad.  It  was  a  sublime,  many- 
arched,  crystal  cathedral,  outlined  with  flashing  bright 
ness.  What  a  transient  thing  it  was !  As  quickly  as  the 
sun  gilded  it,  just  so  quickly  did  it  demolish  it.  Glittering 
pillar  and  frieze  and  cornice  suddenly  disintegrated,  and 
under  the  gray,  naked  old  trees  thick-strewn  twigs  and 
fast-melting  icicles  were  all  that  was  left  of  this  palace  of 
carved  ice. 

How  short  the  winter  days  used  to  seem !  how  clear-cut 
they  were  by  snow  and  cold  and  lack  of  growing  life! 
What  winters  those  were  of  forty  years  ago,  when  snow 
drifts  blotted  out  the  features  of  a  landscape  and  levelled 
the  country  into  a  monotonous  white  plain ;  when  people 
woke  in  the  morning  to  find  their  windows  blocked  up,  and 
the  chief  labor  of  months  was  to  keep  their  roads  open. 

Much  joy  the  young  people  got  out  of  these  same  snow 
drifts.  The  crusts  which  hid  the  fences  gave  them  ample 
coasting-fields,  and  they  burrowed  like  rabbits  in  the 
drifts.  I  remember  a  village,  beloved  by  Boreas,  which 
was  beset  by  mimic  Laplanders,  who  used  to  call  out  to 
surprised  travellers  from  their  caves  in  the  piled-up  way 
side.  In  this  same  village  the  adventurous  boy  used  to 


KOLLINS]  WINTER  PLEASURES.  423 

shoot  over  highway  and  fence,  across  fields,  past  a  frozen 
brook,  up  to  the  edge  of  a  forest  a  mile  off.  His  small 
craft  was  liable  to  strand  by  the  way,  and  lucky  was  he  if 
he  did  not  bring  up  against  the  jagged  bark  of  some  out 
standing  tree.  His  sled  was  home-made,  of  good  wood, 
mortised  and  pinned  together,  and  shod  with  supple 
withes,  which  with  use  took  a  polish  like  glass,  and  had 
seldom  to  be  renewed. 

Boys  and  girls  slid  and  coasted  through  their  childhood, 
and  this  keen  challenge  of  the  north  winds,  this  flinging 
of  muscle  against  the  rude  forces  of  winter,  shaped  and 
strengthened  them  for  after-labor.  They  glided  along  the 
highway,  over  the  ruts  made  by  iron-shod  wood-sleds; 
they  guttered  the  snow-drifts  with  tracks ;  and  wherever 
the  rain  had  settled  and  frozen  in  the  fields  or  by  the 
wayside,  they  cleared  and  cut  up  the  ponds  with  their 
swift-flying  feet.  Ploughing  knee-deep  through  freshly- 
fallen  snows  to  the  village  school,  roughly  clad,  rosy- 
cheeked,  joyous,  they  eagerly  beset  passing  sleds  and 
sleighs,  hanging  to  stakes  and  clinging  to  runners,  from 
which  they  tumbled  into  the  school-house  entry,  stamping 
it  full  of  snow.  The  girls  were  not  a  whit  behind  the 
boys  in  their  clamor  and  agility.  They  slid  down  the 
steep  snow-banks  and  up  and  down  the  ice-paths,  swift 
and  fearless,  and  burst  into  the  school-room  almost  as 
riotously  as  the  boys. 

Tea-drinkings  were  the  usual  social  diversions  of  the 
farm-house  winter  life.  They  were  prim  occasions,  on 
which  the  best  china,  linen,  and  silver  were  brought  out. 
Pound-cake  and  pies  and  cheese  and  dough-nuts  and  cold 
meats  were  set  forth,  and  guests  partook  of  them  with 
appetites  sharpened  by  the  rarity  of  the  occasion.  Neigh 
bors  from  miles  away  were  liable,  on  any  winter's  evening, 
to  drive  into  my  grandfather's  yard  for  a  social  cup  of  tea. 


424  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

The  women  took  off  their  wraps,  smoothed  their  cap- 
borders,  and  planted  themselves,  knitting-work  in  hand, 
before  the  hearth  in  the  best  room.  The  men  put  up 
their  horses,  and,  coming  back,  they  stamped  their  feet 
furiously  in  the  entry,  and  blustered  into  the  sitting- 
room,  filling  it  with  frosty  night-air.  They  talked  of  the 
weather,  of  the  condition  of  their  stock,  of  how  the  past- 
year's  crops  held  out,  and  told  their  plans  for  the  coming 
year.  The  women  gossiped  of  town  affairs,  the  minister, 
the  storekeeper's  latest  purchase,  of  their  dairies,  and 
webs,  and  linens,  and  wools,  keeping  time  with  flying 
fingers  to  the  tales  they  told.  The  unconscious  old  clock 
in  the  corner  kept  ticking  away  the  while,  and  Hannah, 
in  the  next  room,  set  in  order  the  repast,  to  which  they 
did  ample  justice,  growing  more  garrulous  when  inspired 
by  the  fine  flavor  of  hospitality.  They  came  and  also 
went  away  early.  When  the  outer  door  and  big  gate  had 
closed  after  them,  there  had  also  gone  out  with  them  all 
extra  movement  and  bustle  from  the  household.  Every 
spoon  and  fork  and  plate  was  already  in  its  place,  the 
remnants  of  the  feast  had  disappeared,  and  the  family 
was  ready  to  take  up  on  the  morrow  the  slackened  thread 
of  its  working  ways. 

The  leave-takings  of  these  ancient  hosts  and  guests 
were  simple  and  beautiful.  They  shook  hands  and  passed 
salutations  and  good  wishes  with  as  much  gravity  as  if 
they  had  been  going  to  some  far  land ;  and  the  pleasure 
which  the  visitors  avowed  in  the  graciousness  shown  them 
was  heart-felt.  Merrily  jingled  their  bells  from  out  the 
farm-yard  into  the  highway,  and,  softly  dying  out  with 
distance,  the  sound  came  back  from  the  far-off  hills  in 
pleasant  echo. 

Tender,  true  hospitality,  simple  customs,  rare  entertain 
ments,  you  left  no  sting,  no  weariness,  behind  you.  You 


ROLLINS]  WINTER  PLEASURES.  425 

gave  and  impoverished  not.  You  were  ungilded,  but  dig 
nified  and  decorous,  healthful  and  pleasure-giving.  If 
you  were  plain,  you  were  not  inelegant,  for  your  silver 
was  pure,  your  china  quaint  and  costly,  your  linens  were 
fine-twined,  your  viands  were  well  cooked  and  wholesome. 
You  were  simply  served  to  simple  guests,  but  not  without 
etiquette  and  the  essence  of  style.  The  host  carved  with 
dexterity,  and  the  hostess,  in  her  busy  passes,  was  in 
stinctively  observant  of  the  tastes  and  needs  of  her  guests. 
That  which  garments  lacked  in  material  and  make,  the 
ruddy  firelight  imparted  to  them,  painting  these  robust 
farmers  and  matrons  into  rarely-costumed  pictures.  "What 
of  high  culture  was  wanting  to  their  speech  was  given  to 
it  by  the  sweet  piety  and  purity  of  it.  They  talked  of 
what  made  up  their  daily  lives,  and  that  was  the  yearly 
marvels  and  glories  of  ever-dying,  ever-renewing  nature. 
The  men,  discoursing  of  winds  and  rains  and  cattle  and 
grasses  and  trees  and  grains,  stumbled  upon  many  truths 
of  high  philosophy,  and,  reviewing  with  earnest  faith  the 
sermons  of  the  Sabbath-day,  showed  themselves  well 
grounded  in  all  gospel  doctrine.  The  women,  innocently 
prattling  of  the  webs  they  wove,  drawing  in  and  out  the 
threads  of  much  discourse,  mixed  with  it  many  a  fine-spun 
sentiment,  and  the  golden  overshot  of  the  few  but  keenly- 
relished  diversions  of  their  serious  lives.  The  serving- 
maid  and  serving-man,  listening  to  them,  and  catching 
the  glow  of  the  firelight  past  them,  went  into  the  back 
ground  of  the  picture,  to  be  quaint  creatures  of  remem 
bered  scenes.  They  themselves,  observant  and  reverent 
of  their  elders,  felt  the  sweets  of  hospitality  in  their  own 
hearts,  and  in  ministering  generously  unto  others  were 
themsolves  being  ministered  unto. 

The  winter  lull  of  vegetation  was  often  spent  by  my 
grandmother  and  Hannah  in  the  spinning  and  dyeing  ami 
ii.  36* 


426  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [KOLLINS 

weaving  of  woollen  fabrics,  to  be  afterwards  fashioned  into 
quilts.  The  most  esteemed  of  these  were  made  of  glossy, 
dark  flannel,  lined  with  yellow,  with  a  slight  wadding  of 
carded  wool.  For  such  a  quilt  the  best  fleece  was  set 
aside,  and  many  dyes  steeped  in  the  chimney-corner. 
Fastened  to  a  frame,  it  was  in  summer  the  fine  needle 
work  of  the  house.  Neighbors  invited  to  tea  helped  to 
prick  into  it,  stitch  by  stitch,  the  shapes  of  flowers  and 
leaves.  They  came  early  and  bent  over  it  with  grim  zeal, 
helped  on  by  the  gradual  showing  of  the  pattern.  They 
loved  to  take  out  the  pins  and  roll  up  the  thing,  counting 
its  coils  with  delight.  The  quilting  of  it  was  hard  work, 
but  the  women  called  this  rest,  and  were  made  happy  by 
such  simple  variation  of  labor.  They  kept  up  their 
harmless  babble  until  sundown,  when  one,  more  anxious 
than  the  rest,  catching  sight  of  a  returning  herd,  would 
exclaim,  "  The  cows  are  coming,  and  I  must  go."  Shortly 
they  might  all  be  seen  hurrying  hither  and  thither  through 
green  lanes,  back  to  the  cares  which  they  had  for  a  few 
hours  shifted. 

The  finishing  of  this  quilt  made  a  gala  day  for  the 
neighborhood.  It  was  unrolled  and  cut  out  with  much 
excitement.  When  Hannah  took  it  to  the  porch  door  to 
shake  it  out,  the  women  all  followed  her,  clutching  its 
edges,  remarking  upon  the  plumpness  of  the  stitched 
leaves  and  the  fineness  of  its  texture.  It  was  truly  a 
beautiful  thing,  for  it  was  a  growth  of  the  farm, — an  ex 
pression  of  the  life  of  its  occupants,  a  fit  covering  for 
those  who  made  it. 

The  winter  diversions  of  the  young  people  were  just 
as  simple  as  those  of  their  elders.  What  could  be  quainter 
than  the  singing-school,  held  in  a  country  school-house, 
with  its  rows  of  tallow  candles  planted  along  the  desks, 
and  its  loud-voiced  master  pitching  his  tunes  ?  The  young 


KOLLINS]  WINTER  PLEASURES.  427 

men  sat  on  one  side  and  the  maidens  on  the  other.  Its 
wild  music  was  heard  far  away.  The  tunes  sung  were  of 
long  repute,  and  what  was  wanting  in  melody  and  har 
mony  was  made  up  by  the  zeal  with  which  they  were 
roared  out.  To  many  of  the  singers  the  walk  home  was 
the  best  of  all,  when,  in  undertone,  they  lengthened  out 
the  melodies  which  had  been  taught  them. 

Apple-bees  and  spelling-matches  sometimes  brought  to 
gether  the  fathers  and  mothers  of  the  district,  as  well  as 
their  sons  and  daughters.  The  former  were  apt  to  mean 
frolics,  which  carried  more  confusion  than  profit  into  a 
farmer's  kitchen.  The  latter  were  the  occasions  of  much 
healthy  merriment. 

After  all,  the  true  zest  to  these  diversions  was  given  to 
them  by  the  bright  moonlight  which  generally  brought 
them  to  pass.  It  was  a  welcome  comer,  and  turned  the 
introverted  evening  life  of  the  farm-houses  out  into  illu 
minated  lanes  and  highways.  Solemn  highways  on  gray 
winter  evenings ;  one  got  easily  bewildered  in  them  and 
thrown  off  from  his  track.  Objects  loomed  up  out  of  the 
snow,  and  harmless  things  took  strange  shapes  and  looked 
ghostly  in  distance  and  whiteness.  Horses  were  apt  to 
shy,  runners  bounced  with  a  sharp  click  upon  the  uneven 
path,  and  bells  rang  sharply  in  the  clear,  cold  air.  Merry, 
merry  bells,  telling  of  coming  and  departing  guests, — the 
one  jocund  voice  of  winter,  putting  the  traveller  in  heart, 
making  glad  the  listening  ear,  ringing  right  joyously  into 
farm  lano  and  yard, — who  does  not  welcome  with  delight 
the  old-time  jingle?  The  sound  of  country  bells,  struck 
out  by  the  slow,  measured  pace  of  farm-horses,  was  of 
prolonged  measure.  It  was  deep,  too,  because  the  bells 
were  made  large  and  of  good  metal.  The  peculiar  sound 
of  each  farmer's  bells  became  as  much  his  personal  posses 
sion  as  his  own  voice,  and  they  were  quite  sure  to  last  his 


428  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

lifetime.  As  much  as  the  winds  the  bells  gave  voice  to 
the  season.  It  was  joyous  mostly,  yet  with  a  wild  pathos 
in  its  music  when  dying  out  in  tortuous  country  ways, 
with  that  sad  indistinctness  of  any  sound  which  had  well- 
nigh  passed  into  silence. 

Akin  to  the  bells  for  sweetness  of  expression  were  tho 
farm-house  lights,  starring  the  landscape  and  telling  tho 
traveller  of  peaceful  in-door  life.  Driving  through  tho 
country,  silent  with  the  rest  of  winter,  one  cannot  over 
estimate  the  companionship  and  friendliness  of  the  lighted 
windows  of  outlying  habitations.  The  breaking  of  a 
farm-light  upon  your  sight  is  like  the  grasp  of  a  living 
hand,  and  with  it  comes  out  to  you  the  peace  of  firesides ; 
by  it,  unawares,  people  send  forth  to  you  the  warm  glow 
of  hospitality.  An  unlighted  house  in  the  sparsely-settled 
country  is  most  forlorn.  It  is  a  body  without  a  soul, — a 
thing  which  ought  to  be  alive  and  is  not. 

In  the  simplicity  of  ancient  country  life  the  homespun 
curtains  were  seldom  let  down  at  eventide.  The  farm 
houses  were  mostly  the  length  of  a  lane  from  the  road 
side,  and  so  the  pictures  of  their  in-door  life  were  sent  out 
from  their  small  windows  through  a  softened  perspective. 
What  could  be  better  than  the  white-headed  old  man 
dozing  in  one  chimney-corner,  the  dear  old  grandmother 
nodding  in  the  other,  the  middle-aged  son  and  daughter 
resting  over  light  work,  the  back-log,  getting  ready  for 
its  raking  up,  the  walls  hung  with  tokens  of  sleeping 
child-life,  such  as  slates,  caps,  and  comforters, — homely 
things,  catching  the  light  of  dying  embers  ? 

How  bright  the  winter  sunsets  were,  how  clear  and 
starlit  the  nights,  how  bracing  and  electric  the  air,  how 
much  more  generous  than  harsh  was  that  climate  which, 
while  it  blotted  out  vegetation,  at  the  same  time  spread 
over  the  landscape  a  great  spectacular  glory  I 


KOLLINS]  WINTER   PLEASURES.  42U 

Shut  in  by  frost-work  from  sight  of  the  out-of-doora 
world,  have  you  never,  when  a  child,  breathed  upon  an 
icy  pane,  and,  through  the  loophole  thus  made,  caught  a 
condensed  view  of  the  glories  of  a  winter's  day  ? 

Picturesque  upon  snow  were  the  most  common  move 
ments  of  farm-life.  Men,  chopping  logs,  seemed  more  like 
players  than  workers.  With  what  steady  swing  their 
axes  rose  and  fell !  how  these  glittered  in  the  sunshine ! 
The  chips  that  flew  freely  about,  tilted  at  all  angles,  how 
fresh  they  were,  with  their  prettily-marked  lines  of  yearly 
growth,  their  shaggy  bark,  and  their  scent  of  sap !  The 
sound  of  the  axe  was  resonant  and  cheery,  putting  life 
into  a  farm-yard.  It  echoed  still  more  pleasantly  from  a 
woodland,  whence  it  came  with  a  muffled  indistinctness, 
like  a  regular  pulse-beat  of  labor.  The  choppers  seemed 
never  to  tire ;  only  they  stopped  now  and  then  to  bran 
dish  their  stiffened  arms  and  gaze  at  their  growing  piles 
with  thrifty  pride.  They  wore  mittens  of  blue  and  white, 
striped,  or  knit  in  a  curious  pattern,  called  "chariot- 
wheels,"  by  the  housewives.  Many  of  them  had  leathern 
patches  upon  thumb  and  palm. 

How  contentedly  the  cattle  stood  chewing  their  cuds 
and  blinking  their  eyes ;  looking  askance  at  the  long 
icicles  which  hung  from  eaves  of  barns  and  trickled  drops 
upon  their  backs !  Women  came  out  with  baskets  and 
buckets  for  wood  and  water,  and,  in  the  silent  attitude  of 
labor,  paused  for  a  moment  and  basked  in  the  sunshine. 
Wood-laden  sleds  dragged  along  the  highway,  with  boys 
and  girls  clinging  to  their  stakes;  and  the  teamsters' 
shouts  to  "  Broad"  and  "  Bright"  mingled  with  the  chatter 
and  laughter  of  boys  and  girls.  Eoofs,  lazily  drying, 
smoked  in  the  sunshine;  and  you  heard  the  weather- 
wise  farmer  saying  to  his  neighbor,  "  It  thaws  in  the  sun 
to-day." 


430  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [ROLLINS 

Beautiful  was  the  heavily-coiling  smoke  in  tho  crisp 
morning  air.  How  deliciously  its  opaque  whiteness  was 
piled  against  a  background  of  sky  I  What  a  charming 
aerial  welcome  it  was  from  the  morning  life  of  the  farm 
house  ! 

Beautiful  was  the  fantastic  piling  of  storm-clouds,  fore- 
i  unners  of  winds ;  and  beautiful  were  the  rugged  drifts 
made  by  flying  snows. 

Hush ! — I  am  young  again.  The  homely  scenes  have 
all  come  back, — the  old  workers  into  their  old  ways  and 
places,  and  the  earth  they  deal  with  wraps  them  about 
with  its  splendor.  Snow  King,  grand  old  Master,  variously 
carving  out  the  features  of  a  winter  landscape,  I  salute 
you! 

Dear  dwellers  in  that  old-fashioned  home,  I  salute  you 
also !  You  seem  to  me  in  memory  as  stately  and  as  beau 
tiful  as  one  of  the  tall  oaks  of  your  own  possessions. 
Nature  was  your  godmother.  She  led  you  in  childhood 
through  her  fields  and  pastures  and  woodlands.  She  dis 
tilled  for  you  the  best  balsams  of  her  trees  and  shrubs. 
You  unwittingly  quaffed  them  as  you  went  with  her,  and 
they  gave  you  health  and  strength  and  lease  of  a  long 
life.  They  inoculated  you  with  a  taste  for  pure  pleasures. 
Your  frames,  your  manners,  your  desires,  your  whole 
life,  had  a  flavor  of  the  land  that  bore  you.  You  were 
the  true  outgrowth,  the  real  aborigines,  the  rightful,  har 
monious,  delightful  denizens  of  the  soil,  you  long-dead, 
but  never-to-be-forgotten  dwellers  in  my  grandfather's 
home  I 


STODDARD!  SHADOW  AND  GRIEF.  431 


SHADOW  AND  GRIEF. 

The  pcems  of  shadow  far  outnumber  those  of  sunshine,  as  if  the 
tenderness  and  pathos  of  a  grieving  heart  were  more  native  to  the 
poetic  sentiment  than  the  gay  heedlessness  of  happy  days  and  merry 
thoughts.  Some  few  of  these  songs  with  the  shadow  of  Borrow  upon 
them  we  here  append.  The  flight  of  the  fresh  joyousness  of  youth, 
"  never  again"  to  return,  is  neatly  rendered  in  song  hy  Stoddard. 

THERE  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 

There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain : 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better, 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign : 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished, 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain ; 
We  behold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 

But  it  never  comes  again ! 

Longfellow,  whose  song  is  ever  full  of  the  wine  of  human  sym« 
pathy,  thus  counsels  the  grieving  to  resignation  under  the  affliction 
of  the  death-angel : 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  I 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  I 


432  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [ALDBICH 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying 

And  mournings  for  the  dead ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted. 

Let  us  be  patient !     These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

"We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mist  and  vapors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps.  .  .  . 

And  though  at  times,  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest, 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay, 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 

This  beautifully -rendered  sentiment  may  be  fitly  followed  by  James 
Aldrich's  "  Death-Bed"  verses : 

Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day ; 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close, 
And  breathed  the  long,  long  night  away 

In  statue-like  repose. 

But  when  the  sun,  in  all  his  state, 

Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 
She  passed  through  glory's  morning  gate, 

And  walked  in  Paradise. 


CARY]  SHADOW  AND  GRIEF.  *33 

Another  poet,  who  prefers  to  remain  in  the  list  of  the  anonymous, 
thus  sings  the  song  of  the  mourner  who  grieves  and  will  not  bo 
comforted : 

PERDITA. 

Under  the  snows  she  sleepeth, 
Under  the  cold,  immaculate  snows, 

And  my  heart  is  bitter  with  grief  and  pain, 
For  I  know,  though  June  brings  back  the  rose, 
That  my  lily  will  never  bloom  again, 
My  pure,  pale  lily  that  sleepeth. 

Beneath  the  violet  lying ; 
No  Spring,  with  its  tender  and  warm  excess 

Of  life  and  passion,  of  bud  and  bloom, 
No  Summer's  infinite  loveliness, 

Can  reach  to  the  depth  of  that  silent  tomb 
Wherein  my  love  is  lying. 

In  vain  they  tell  me  she  liveth, 
"With  her  warm,  sweet  face  and  her  tender  eyes, 

In  some  divine  Beyond,  afar : 
I  only  know  that  out  of  my  skies 

Has  faded  and  vanished  the  morning  star  : 
Not  unto  me  she  liveth. 


Death,  however,  has  its  consolations,  as  well  as  its  thoughts  ot 
gloom.  In  Phoebe  Cary's  sweetest  song  it  holds  out  hands  of  wel 
come  to  clasp  our  outreaching  hands  of  hope  and  trust. 

NEARER   HOME. 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 

Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er : 
I'm  nearer  home  to-day 

Than  I  ever  have  been  before ; 
n.— T       ee  37 


434  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOLMES 

Nearer  my  Father's  house, 
Where  the  many  mansions  be ; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne ; 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea  ; 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life, 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down ; 

Nearer  leaving  the  cross ; 
Nearer  gaining  the  crown. 

But  lying  darkly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 

Is  the  silent,  unknown  stream 
That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 

Come  to  the  dread  abysm ; 
Closer  Death  to  my  lips 

Presses  the  awful  chrism. 

Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet 
Have  almost  gained  the  brink ; 

If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 
Even  to-day  than  I  think ; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust ; 

Let  my  spirit  feel  in  death 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 

On  the  rock  of  a  living  faith ! 

"We  append  one  other  poem,  through  which  runs,  like  a  dark  veil 
through  the  rock  of  life,  the  sentiment  of  heart-pain  and  hopelessness 

THE  VOICELESS. 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumber, 


POE]  SHADOW  AND  GRIEF.  435 

But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 

The  wild-flowers  who  will  stoop  to  number? 

A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them : — 

Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them  1 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their  heart's  sad  story  ; 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 

The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory  I 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 

O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 

On  nameless  sorrow's  churchyard  pillow. 

O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign, 

Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery's  crushing  presses, — 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven ! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


Foe's  musical  allegory  ends  with  the  same  despairing  view  of  humam 
life, 

THE   HAUNTED    PALACE. 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys, 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace 

(Eadiant  palace)  reared  its  head. 


436  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [PoK 

In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion 

It  stood  there  1 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This,  all  this,  was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago) ; 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Bound  about  a  throne,  where,  sitting 

(Porphyrogene  1) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

"Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  King. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 
Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate 


ANONYMOUS]   POMP'S  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE.  437 

(Ah !  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 
Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate) ; 

And  round  about  his  home  the  glory- 
That  blushed  and  bloomed 

Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 
Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody, 
While,  like  a  ghastly,  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 

EDGAK  A.  POE. 


POMP'S  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE. 

ANONYMOUS. 

["The  Colonel's  Opera-Cloak,"  one  of  the  most  amusing  of  recent 
books,  is  one  of  the  "  No  Name  Series"  of  Messrs.  Koberts  Brothers, 
a  series  of  anonymous  novels  whose  high  literary  character  has  given 
them  a  well-deserved  popularity  with  American  readers.  The  unknown 
author  of  the  "  Colonel's  Opera-Cloak"  has  certainly  touched  the  ex 
treme  of  the  ridiculous  in  the  well-drawn  picture  of  the  colonel's  shift 
less  family  and  the  remarkable  adventures  of  the  cloak.  The  old 
negro's  idea  of  heaven  and  of  religious  duty,  which  we  give,  is  among 
the  most  amusing  parts  of  the  work.] 

"  Dis  yere  death's  a  mighty  myste'ous  thing,  Miss  Les 
lie,"  said  Pomp,  as  the  two  sat,  a  short  time  after  this,  on 
n.  37* 


438  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.      [ANONYMOUS 

the  kitchen  stairs,  waiting  for  the  kettle  to  boil.  Stairs 
were  much  approved  of  as  seats  by  the  St.  Johns :  they 
were  always  safe ;  and  chairs  were  treacherous,  and  never 
could  be  depended  on. 

"  Yes,  Pomp,"  said  Leslie :  "  a  few  days  ago  and  we 
could  ask  Jasper  what  he  knew  or  felt  or  thought ;  and 
now,  if  we  asked  him,  he  couldn't  tell  us  so  that  we  could 
understand." 

"Why,  Miss  Leslie,"  asked  Pomp,  in  sudden  alarm, 
"why  couldn't  we  un'stan'  him?  Yer  don't  'spect  he'll 
talk  de  wrong  way,  like  de  Jew  in  de  pawn-shop,  or  de 
Chinyman,  does  yer, — so't  I  can't  un'stan'  him  when  I 
gits  dar?  I  hope  he  ain't  gwine  to  git  so  larned  dat  I 
shall  hev  to  be  int'duced  to  him !  Does  yer  tink,  Miss 
Leslie,  dey  grows  up,  or  stays  de  way  dey  was  when  dey 
goes  in  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Leslie,  who  tried  in  her  simple 
way  to  be  good,  and  in  so  trying  wrought  out  a  sweet 
and  Christ-like  religion.  "  I  don't  know :  only  the  hymn 
says, — 

'  We  shall  know  each  other  there.' 

I  reckon,  Pomp,  it  will  be  just  as  if  we  had  been  away 
from  our  friends  for  a  good  while,  and  when  we  saw  them 
again  they  were  changed,  and  were  gentler  and  kinder 
and  more  beautiful,  and  we  should  see  that  they  were  dif 
ferent,  and  yet  they'd  be  the  same.  We'd  know  them  as 
soon  as  they  spoke,  even  though  it  was  in  a  dark  rocm 
and  we  didn't  know  they  were  there." 

Pomp's  tearful  eyes  glistened  with  pride. 

"Bar's  good  comfort  in  dat,  Miss  Leslie,"  ho  said. 
"'Pears  like  de  Lord's  speakin'  froo  yer.  'Pears  like  I 
Bees  John  Jasper  now,  all  dressed  up  an'  lookin'  as  good 
as  Massa  Tom ;  yit  he'll  be  my  boy  an'  yer  boy ;  an'  I 


ANONYMOUS]   POMP'S  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE.  439 

done  reckon  dat  chile  won't  leave  his  eyes  off  dat  gate 
a-watchin'  fur  yer  an'  fur  me. 

"  De  way  to  Prov'dence  is  pas'  findin'  out,  Miss  Leslie," 
added  he,  piously  rolling  his  eyes.  "  Somehow,  I  don't 
look  wid  no  respec',  no  more,  on  de  Colonel's  op'ra-cloak. 
I  feels,  somehow  or  nudder,  dat  ef  dat  cloak  had  done  his 
duty,  dat  chile  would  be  tumblin'  down-stairs,  or  suthin', 
dis  minute  here.  I  tole  Jasper,  on  Monday,  not  to  go  out 
widout  puttin'  on  de  op'ra  cloak,  fear  he'd  cotch  cold  in 
his  chist ;  an'  nowhar  could  he  fin'  it.  'Pears  sometimes 
's  ef  dat  cloak  had  got  legs  on  to  it  dat  we  can't  see,  an' 
jes'  walked  itself  off  an'  hid  under  tings  an'  behin"  tings. 
I  shouldn't  never  have  foun'  whar  it  was  a-hidin',  ef  I 
hedn't  loa'  my  shoe,  an'  I  was  scoochin'  down,  lookin' 
under  ev'ryting,  an'  dar  was  dat  op'ra-cloak  a-squeezin' 
in  'tween  de  wall  an'  de  sofy,  whar  nobody  wouldn't 
never  hev  looked  fur  it. 

"  Why,  we  might  hev  gone  away  from  dis  house,  an' 
never  hev  foun'  it,  Miss  Leslie,  an'  what  would  de  Colonel 
hev  said?  I  reckon  I  knows !" 

"  Oh,  Pomp,"  said  Leslie,  the  tears  filling  her  beautiful 
eyes,  "  don't  wish  Jasper  back !  He's  better  off  than  we 
are." 

"Yes,"  said  Pomp:  "I  reckon  he's  better  off;  an'  yit 
he  was  putty  good  off  when  he  was  here.  Ef  yer  count 
up  what  folks  call  massies,  he  hed  mos'  on  'em.  He  hedn't 
no  gran'ma',  but  there's  a  good  many  folks  hain't.  I  hain't 
got  no  gran'ma', — no,  nor  no  gran'fa',  nuther ;  but  I  don' 
tink  much  'bout  it,  'cept  when  I  hears  folks  speakin'  on 
'em.  But  how'll  dis  be  ? — John  Jasper's  mo'er  died  when 
he  was  a  little  baby.  She  won't  know  him:  he  won't 
know  her,  'less  his  gran'ma'  tells  him  who  she  is.  But, 
den,"  said  Pomp,  falling  into  confusion  in  his  genealogies, 
as  many  others  have  done,  "  his  gran'ma'  she  never  seen 


440  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.      [ANONYMOUS 

Jasper  I  It's  me  dat  bed  ought  to  passed  away  fust,  to 
Lev  bed  tings  all  straighted  up.  'Pears  like  nothin'  don't 
go  straight,  ef  I  isn't  dar  to  'tend  to  it." 

"  I  reckon  things  will  go  right  in  heaven  without  you, 
Pomp,"  said  Leslie,  with  a  faint  smile ;  "  but  I  am  sure 
they  wouldn't  here  in  this  family.  I  wish  we  were  like 
the  Douglases.  Everything  goes  so  smoothly  there,  and 
they  are  so  good !  They  help  poor  people,  and  they  cro 
to  mission-schools." 

Pomp  looked  very  solemn. 

"  I  used  to  be  awful  'ligious,"  be  said.  "  I  used  to  go 
to  heaps  o'  woods-meetin's,  an'  I  hollered  louder'n  any  one 
on  'em.  Why,  Miss  Leslie,  I  was  baptized  in  de  Rappa- 
hannick,  in  jes'  de  spot,  in  de  very  water,  dat  Gen'l 
Washin'ton  was  baptized  in, — no,  'twasn't  Gen'l  Washin'- 
ton,  nuther:  'twas  Joyce  Heth.  I  done  'member  she  was 
Gen'l  Washin'ton's  nuss  !  So  I  was  baptized  on  hysteric 
groun',  yer  see  I 

"  Oh,  I  got  'ligion,  in  dem  days,  so  dere  wa'n't  no  doin' 
nothin'  wid  me ;  but,"  Pomp  sighed,  "  I  ain't  bed  no  time 
dese  las'  years  fur  'ligion.  I'se  had  to  see  to  all  o'  yer." 

"  They  all  ran  away  but  you,"  said  Leslie :  "  that  was 
when  I  was  very  little." 

"  Yes,  dey  got  free,  an'  so  dey  run  off.  Dey  said  I  was 
a  fool  to  stay  here ;  but  I  'membered  what  I  done  promise 
to  ole  Missus  when  she  was  a-dyin'.  Says  she, '  Don't  yer 
never  leave  Miss  Marie,  'cause  she's  hard  to  git  'long  wid, 
an'  nobody  can't  git  'long  wid  her  'cept  jes'  yer.'  An'  den 
de  colonel  he  got  pore,  an'  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  cl'ar  out  when 
my  frien's  gits  pore.  Dat's  de  time  when  yer  wants  yer 
frien's. 

"  My  brudder  he's  in  PhiPdelphy.  He's  got  a  barber's 
shop,  an'  he  goes  out  ha'r-dressin', — he  can't  do  it  no  bet 
ter  nor  I  kin, — an'  he  makes  heaps  o'  money.  He  dresses 


ANOHTMOUS!   POMP'S  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE.  441 

up  mighty  fine,  dey  says,  an'  goes  scootin'  round  wid  a 
cane,  an'  one  o'  dem  high-top  hats,  like  Massa  Tom's.  He's 
putty  high  in  meetin's,  too !  He  passes  de  box,  an'  he's 
one  ob  de  deacons.  I  'spect  he'll  be  powerful  high  in  de 
kingdom.  But  de  good  Lord  he'll  'cuse  me,  I  'spect ;  fur 
I  can't  git  no  time  to  be  'ligious, — dar's  suthin'  to  do  allers. 
I  don't  seem  to  git  froo. 

""When  we  gits  settled  ag'in,  I  must  look  up  my  'ligion. 
I  ain't  kep'  but  a  little  on't, — -jes'  to  say  my  pra'ers,  an'  do 
my  duty,  an'  love  de  Lord  an'  ev'rybody, — dat  is,  ev'ry- 
body  'cept — 'cept  Massa  Cavello ;  but,  den,  he  don't  'mount 
to  much." 

"  I  think  that  is  pretty  much  the  whole  of  religion," 
said  Leslie.  "  It  always  comforts  me  to  know  that  you 
pray  for  us,  Pomp ;  and  I'm  sure  nobody  in  the  world  is 
so  unselfish  as  you." 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  onselfish,"  said  Pomp.  "  I  hasn't  never 
done  tings  fur  folks.  I  hasn't  visited  'em  in  prison,  an' 
I  hasn't  gin  clo'es  to  nobody,  an'  I  hain't  fed  nobody  what 
was  hungry, — 'cept  de  boys,  of  course :  dey's  ben  hungry 
times  'nuf,  an'  I'se  put  dere  clo'es  on  times  'nuf,  too. 

"  Now,  jes'  look  at  dat  kittle !"  cried  Pomp.  "  I  can't 
talk  to  nobody,  but  dat  kittle  gits  so  res'less  an'  biles  over 
pokin'  up  de  kiver  like  he  couldn't  wait  tell  I  gits  dar  I" 

"  Pomp  1"  cried  Clarence,  coming  to  the  stairs.  "  Hurry 
up,  there  1  I'm  'most  starved  to  death.  Isn't  supper  'most 
ready  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Leslie,  rising,  "  I  almost  wish  I  was  where 
Jasper  is.  What's  the  use  of  being  raised,  to  wish,  half 
the  time,  you  hadn't  been  born  ?" 

Pomp  wiped  his  tears  away. 


442  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [PABTOX 

MY  NOTION  OF  MUSIC. 

6.  P.  PARTON. 

[The  spicy  writer  who,  some  thirty  years  ago,  figured  under  the 
pseudonyme  of  "  Fanny  Fern,"  and  whose  "  Fern  Leaves"  and  other 
works  attained  great  popularity,  was  a  sister  of  N.  P.  Willis,  the  poet, 
her  actual  name  being  Sarah  Payson  Willis.  She  married  James 
Parton,  the  able  biographical  author.  She  was  born  in  1811,  and  died 
in  1872.  The  extracts  we  give  are  from  "  Caper  Sauce,"  and  are  fair 
specimens  of  her  humor,  pathos,  and  shrewd  worldly  wisdom.] 

I'VE  been  defending  myself  from  the  charge  of  "noi 
knowing  what  music  is."  Perhaps  I  don't  know.  But 
when  I  go  to  a  fashionable  concert,  and  the  lady  "  artiste" 
I  believe  that  is  the  regulation- word,  comes  out  in  her 
best  bib  and  tucker,  with  a  gilt  battle-axe  in  her  back 
hair,  and  a  sunflower  in  her  bosom,  led  by  the  tips  of 
her  white  gloves,  by  the  light  of  a  gleaming  bracelet, 
and  stands  there  twiddling  a  sheet  of  music,  preparatory 
to  the  initiatory  scream,  I  feel  like  screaming  myself. 
Now,  if  she  would  just  trot  on,  in  her  morning  gown, 
darning  a  pair  of  stockings,  and  sit  naturally  down  in  her 
old  rocking-chair,  and  give  me  "Auld  Robin  Gray,"  in 
stead  of  running  her  voice  up  and  down  the  scales  for  an 
hour  to  show  me  how  high  and  how  low  she  can  go  with 
out  dropping  down  in  a  fit,  I'd  like  it.  One  trial  of  her 
voice  that  way,  to  test  its  capacity,  satisfies  me.  It  is  as 
good  as  a  dozen,  and  a  great  deal  better.  I  don't  want  to 
listen  to  it  a  whole  evening.  I  will  persist  that  running 
up  and  down  the  scales  that  way  isn't  "music."  Then,  if 
you  only  knew  the  agony  I'm  in  when,  drawing  near  the 
end  of  one  of  her  musical  gymnastics,  she  essays  to  wind 
up  with  one  of  those  swift,  deafening,  don't-stop-to-breathe- 
finales,  you  would  pity  me.  I  get  hysterical.  I  wish  she 


PABTON]  MY  NOTION  OF  MUSIC.  443 

would  split  her  throat  at  once,  or  stop.  I  want  to  be  let 
out.  I  want  the  roof  lifted.  I  feel  a  cold  perspiration 
breaking  out  on  my  forehead.  I  know  that  presently  she 
will  catch  up  that  blue-gauze  skirt  and  skim  out  that  side- 
door,  only  to  come  and  do  it  all  over  again,  in  obedience 
to  that  dead-head  encore.  You  see,  all  this  machinery 
disenchants  me.  It  takes  away  my  appetite,  like  telling 
me  at  dinner  how  much  beef  is  a  pound.  I  had  rather 
the  ropes  and  pulleys  of  music  would  keep  behind  the 
curtain. 

Of  course  my  "taste  is  not  cultivated,"  and,  moreover, 
the  longer  I  live  the  less  chance  there  is  of  it.  On  that 
point  I'm  what  country-folks  call  "sot."  Sometimes, 
when  passing  one  of  these  concerts-rooms  of  an  evening,  I 
have  caught  a  note  that  I  took  home  with  me.  Caught  it 
with  the  help  of  the  darkness,  and  the  glimmering  stars, 
and  the  fresh  wind  on  my  forehead,  and  a  blessed  igno 
rance  of  the  distorted  mouth  and  the  heaving  millinery 
that  sent  it  forth.  But  take  me  w,  and  you'll  have  an 
hysterical  maniac.  The  solemn  regulation  faces,  looking 
at  that  "  music,"  set  me  bewitched  to  laugh  and  outrage 
that  fashion-drilled  and  kidded  audience.  Bless  you,  / 
can't  help  it.  I  had  rather  hear  Dinah  sing  "  Old  John 
Brown"  over  her  wash-tub.  I  had  rather  go  over  to  Mr. 
Beecher's  church  some  Sunday  night  and  hear  that  vast 
congregation  swell  forth  Old  Hundred,  with  each  man  and 
woman's  soul  so  in  it  that  earthly  cares  and  frets  are  no 
more  remembered  than  the  old  garments  we  cast  out  of 
sight. 

When  the  words  of  a  favorite  hymn  are  read  from  the 
pulpit,  and  I  am  expecting  the  good  old-fashioned  tune 
that  has  been  wedded  to  it  since  my  earliest  recollection, 
and  instead  I  am  treated  to  a  series  of  quirks  and  quavers 
by  a  professional  quartette,  I  can't  help  wishing  myself 


444  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

where  the  whole  congregation  sing  with  the  heart  and  the 
understanding,  in  the  old-fashioned  manner.  I  can  have 
"opera"  on  week-days,  and  scenery  and  fine  dresses  thrown 
in.  Sunday  I  want  Sunday,  not  opera  in  neglige. 

Of  course  it  is  high  treason  for  me  to  make  such  an 
avowal;  so,  while  I  am  in  for  it,  I  may  as  well  give 
another  twist  to  the  rope  that  is  round  my  neck.  The 
other  night  I  went  to  hear  "  The  Messiah."  The  worda 
are  lovely,  and  as  familiar  to  my  Puritan  ears  as  the 
"  Assembly's  Catechism ;"  but  when  they  kept  on  repeat 
ing,  "  The  Lord  is  in  his  hoi — the  Lord  is  in — is  in  his  hoi 
— is  in — the  Lord  is  in  his  hoi" — and  when  the  leader, 
slim,  and  clothed  in  inky  black,  kept  his  arms  going  like 
a  Jack-in-a-box,  I  grew  anything  but  devout.  The  ludi 
crous  side  of  it  got  the  better  of  me ;  and  when  my  com 
panion,  who  pretends  to  be  no  Christian  at  all,  turned  to 
me,  who  am  reputed  to  be  one,  in  a  state  of  exaltation, 
and  said,  "  Isn't  that  grand,  Fanny  ?"  he  could  have  wished 
that  the  tears  in  my  eyes  were  not  hysterical  from  long- 
suppressed  laughter.  He  says  he  never  will  take  me 
there  again ;  and  I  only  hope  he  will  keep  his  word.  All 
the  "music"  I  got  out  of  it  was  in  one  or  two  lovely 
"  solos." 

Now,  what  I  want  to  know  is,  which  has  the  most 
love  for  genuine  music, — he  or  I  ? 

The  fact  is,  I  like  to  find  my  music  in  unexpected,  simple 
ways,  where  the  machinery  is  not  visible,  like  the  galvanic 
gyrations  of  that  "leader,"  for  instance.  That  kind  of 
thing  recalls  too  vividly  my  old  "fa-sol-la"  singing-school, 
where  the  boys  pulled  my  curls  and  gave  me  candy  and 
misspelt  notes. 

There  is  evidently  something  wanting  in  my  make-up 
with  regard  to  "  music,"  when  I  can  cry  at  the  singing  of 
the  following  simple  verses  by  the  whole  congregation  in 


PARTON]        BOSTON  BLESSINGS  AND  BEANS.  445 

church,  and  do  the  opposite  at  the  scientific  performance 
of  "  The  Messiah."     Listen  to  the  verses : 

"  Pass  me  not,  O  gentle  Saviour, 

Hear  my  humble  cry  ; 
While  on  others  thou  art  smiling, 

Do  not  pass  me  by. 
Saviour,  Saviour, 
Hear  my  humble  cry. 

"  If  I  ask  him  to  receive  me, 

Will  he  say  me  nay  ? 
Not  till  earth  and  not  till  heaven 
Shall  have  passed  away." 

BOSTON   BLESSINGS   AND   BEANS. 

New  England,  all  hail  to  thy  peerless  thrift !  Thou  art 
cranky  and  crotchety ;  thou  art  "  sot,"  uncommon  "  sot," 
in  thy  ways,  owing  doubtless  to  the  amiable  sediment  of 
English  blood  in  thy  veins.  Thou  wilt  not  be  cheated  in 
a  bargain,  even  by  thy  best  friend  ;  but,  in  the  mean  time, 
that  enableth  thy  large  heart  to  give  handsomely  when 
charity  knocks  at  thy  door.  Thy  pronunciation  may  be 
peculiar;  but,  in  the  mean  time,  what  thou  dost  not  know, 
and  cannot  do,  is  rarely  worth  knowing  or  doing.  Thou 
never  hast  marble,  and  silver,  and  plate-glass,  and  statu 
ary  in  thy  show-parlors,  and  shabby  belongings  where  the 
world  does  not  penetrate.  Thou  hast  not  stuccoed  walls 
with  big  cracks  in  them,  or  anything  in  thy  domiciles 
hanging  as  it  were  by  the  eyelids.  Every  nail  is  driven 
BO  that  it  will  stay  ;  every  hinge  hung  so  that  it  will  work 
thoroughly.  Every  bolt  and  key  and  lock  perform  their 
duty  like  a  martinet,  so  long  as  a  piece  of  them  endures. 
If  thou  hast  a  garden,  be  it  only  a  square  foot,  it  is  made 
the  most  of,  with  its  "  long  saace,"  and  "  short  saace"  and 
"  wimmin's  notions,"  in  the  shape  of  flowers  and  caraway  - 
11.  38 


446  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

seed,  to  chew  on  Sunday,  when  the  minister  gets  as  far  as 
"  seventeenthly,"  and  carnal  nature  will  fondly  recur  to 
the  waiting  pot  of  baked  beans  in  the  kitchen  oven.  O 
New  England,  here  could  I  shed  salt  tears  at  the  thought 
of  thy  baked  beans,  for  Gotham  knows  them  not.  Alluding 
to  that  edible,  I  am  met  with  a  pitying  sneer,  accompanied 
with  that  dread  word  to  snobs, — "provincial!"  It  is  ever 
thus,  my  peerless,  with  the  envy  which  cannot  attain  to 
the  perfection  it  derides.  For  you  should  see,  my  thrifty 
New  England,  the  watery,  white-livered,  tasteless,  swimmy, 
sticky  poultice  which  Gotham  christens  "  baked  beans." 
My  soul  revolts  at  it.  It  is  an  unfeeling,  wretched 
mockery  of  the  rich,  brown,  crispy,  succulent  contents 
of  that  "  platter" — yes,  platter — I  will  say  it ! — which  erst 
delighted  my  eyes  in  the  days  when  I  swallowed  the 
Catechism  without  a  question  as  to  its  infallibility. 

UNKNOWN   ACQUAINTANCES. 

You  have  none?  Then  I  am  sorry  for  you.  Much  of 
my  pleasure  in  my  daily  walks  is  due  to  them.  Perhaps 
you  go  over  the  ground  mechanically,  with  only  dinner 
or  business  in  your  eye  when  you  shall  reach  your  jour 
ney's  end.  Perhaps  you  "  don't  see  a  soul,"  as  you  express 
it.  Perhaps  you  have  no  "soul"  yourself;  only  a  body, 
of  which  you  are  very  conscious,  and  whose  claims  upon 
you  outweigh  every  other  consideration.  That  is  a  pity. 
I  wouldn't  go  round  that  treadmill  for  all  the  mines  of 
Golconda !  It  always  makes  me  think  of  that  melancholy 
old  horse  one  sees,  pawing  rotatory  wood,  at  the  way- 
stations,  on  the  railroad-tracks ;  and  because  the  sight 
makes  every  bone  in  me  ache,  my  particular  window-seat 
in  the  car  is  always  sure  to  command  a  view  of  him. 
Now,  come  what  will,  I'll  not  be  that  horse.  You  may  if 
you  like,  and  I  will  cling  to  my  dreams.  I  shan't  live  in 


PAKTON]  UNKNOWN  ACQUAINTANCES.  447 

this  world  forever,  and  I  won't  hurry  over  the  ground  and 
never  see  a  sweet  face  as  it  flits  past  me,  or  a  grand  one, 
or  a  sorrowful  one.  I  won't  be  deaf  to  the  rippling  laugh 
of  a  little  child  or  the  musical  voice  of  a  refined  woman. 
It  may  be  only  two  words  that  she  shall  speak,  but  they 
shall  have  a  pleasant  significance  for  me.  Then  there  are 
strange  faces  I  meet  every  day  which  I  hope  to  keep  on 
meeting  till  I  die.  Who  was  such  an  idiot  as  to  say  that 
"  no  woman  ever  sees  beauty  in  another"  ?  I  meet  every 
day  a  face  that  no  man  living  could  admire  more  than 
myself;  soulful  as  well  as  beautifuL  Lovely,  blue,  pensive 
eyes ;  golden  hair,  waving  over  a  pure  white  forehead ; 
cheeks  like  the  heart  of  a  "  blush  rose ;"  and  a  grieved 
little  rosy  mouth,  like  that  of  a  baby  to  whom  for  the 
first  time  you  deny  something,  fearing  lest  it  grow  too 
wilful.  I  think  that  day  lost  in  which  I  do  not  meet  that 
sweet  face,  framed  in  its  close  mourning-bonnet.  Were  I 
a  man,  it  is  to  that  face  I  should  immediately  "make  love." 

Make  love  ?  Alas !  I  did  not  think  how  terribly  sig 
nificant  was  this  modern  term  when  I  used  it.  Let  no 
man  make  love  to  that  face.  But  if  there  is  one  who  can 
be  in  dead  earnest,  and  stay  so,  I  give  my  consent,  pro 
vided  he  will  not  attempt  to  change  the  expression  of  that 
mouth. 

I  have  another  acquaintance.  I  don't  care  to  ask, 
'•"  Who  is  that  man  ?"  I  know  that  he  has  lived  his  life 
and  not  slept  it  away.  I  know  that  it  has  been  a  pure 
and  a  good  one.  It  is  written  in  his  bright,  clear,  un 
clouded  eye ;  in  his  springing  step  ;  in  the  smile  of  content 
upon  his  lip ;  in  the  lift  of  his  shoulders ;  in  the  poise  of 
his  head ;  in  the  free,  glad  look  with  which  he  breathes  in 
his  share  of  the  warm  sunshine.  Were  he  taken  to  the 
bedside  of  a  sick  man,  it  seems  to  me  the  very  sight  of 
him  were  health. 


448  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [PARTON 

I  used  to  have  many  unknown  acquaintances  among  the 
little  children  in  the  parks ;  but,  what  with  French  nurses 
and  silk  velvet  coats,  I  have  learned  to  turn  my  feet  else 
where.  It  gives  me  the  heart-ache  to  see  a  child  slapped 
for  picking  up  a  bright  autumn  leaf,  though  it  may  chance 
to  be  "  dirty ;"  or  denied  a  smooth,  round  pebble,  on  ac 
count  of  a  dainty  little  glove  that  must  be  kept  immacu 
late.  I  get  out  of  temper,  and  want  to  call  on  all  their 
mothers  and  fight  Quixotic  battles  for  the  poor  little 
things, — as  if  it  wrould  do  any  good ;  as  if  mothers  who 
dress  their  children  that  way  to  play,  cared  for  anything 
but  their  looks. 

Then  I  have  some  unknown  acquaintances  in  the  yard 
of  a  large  house  in  the  upper  part  of  Broadway.  I  never 
asked  who  lives  in  the  house ;  but  I  thank  him  for  the 
rare  birds  of  brilliant  plumage  who  walk  to  and  fro  in  it, 
or  perch  upon  the  window-sills  or  steps,  as  proudly  con- 
Bcious  of  their  gay  feathers  as  the  belles  who  rustle  past. 
I  love  to  imagine  the  beautiful  countries  they  came  from, 
and  the  flowers  that  blossomed  there,  and  the  soft  skies 
that  arched  over  them.  I  love  to  see  them  pick  up  their 
food  so  daintily,  and,  with  head  on  one  side,  eye  their  many 
admirers  looking  through  the  fence,  as  if  to  say,  Beat  that 
if  you  can  in  America !  Ah !  my  birdies,  stop  your  crow 
ing  ;  just  wait  a  bit  and  see  how  the  "  American  eagle"  is 
going  to  come  out,  and  how  each  time  they  who  have 
tried  to  clip  his  wings  have  only  found  that  it  made  them 
grow  broader  and  stronger.  Soft  skies  and  sweet  flowers 
are  very  nice  things,  birdies ;  but  rough  winds  and  freedom 
are  better  for  the  soul. 

I  have  said  nothing  of  unknown  acquaintances  among 
my  favorite  authors.  How  many  times — did  I  not  so  hate 
the  sight  of  a  pen  when  "  school  is  let  out" — have  I  longed 
to  express  to  them  my  love  and  gratitude !  Nor,  judging 


PAKTON]  LIFE  AND  ITS  MYSTERIES.  449 

by  myself,  could  I  ever  say,  "  they  do  not  need  it ;"  since 
there  are,  or  should  be,  moments  in  the  experience  of  all 
writers  when  they  regard  with  a  dissatisfied  eye  what 
they  have  already  given  to  the  world,  when  sympathetic, 
appreciative  words,  warm  from  the  heart,  are  hope  and 
inspiration  to  the  receiver. 

LIFE   AND   ITS   MYSTERIES. 

Was  there  ever  a  romance  in  that  man  or  that  woman's 
life?  I  used  to  ask  myself,  as  I  looked  upon  a  hard  face 
which  stoicism  seemed  to  have  frozen  over  through  the 
long  years.  "Was  there  ever  a  moment  when  for  that  man, 
or  woman,  love  transfigured  everything,  or  the  want  of  it 
threw  over  the  wide  earth  the  pall  of  unrest  ?  Have  they 
ever  wept,  or  laughed,  or  sighed,  or  clasped  hands  in  pas 
sionate  joy  or  sorrow  ?  Had  they  any  life  ?  Or  have 
they  simply  vegetated  like  animals?  Did  they  see  any 
beauty  in  rock,  mountain,  sky,  or  river,  or  was  this  green 
earth  a  browsing-place,  nothing  more  ? 

I  never  ask  those  questions  now ;  for  I  know  how  much 
fire  may  be  hidden  under  a  lava-crusted  exterior.  I  know 
that  though  the  treasure-chest  may  sometimes  be  locked 
when  it  is  empty,  oftener  beneath  the  fastening  lies  the 
wealth  which  the  right  touch  can  at  any  moment  set  free. 
There  are  divers  masks  worn  in  this  harlequin  world  of 
ours.  Years  ago  I  met,  in  travelling,  a  lady  who  seemed 
to  me  the  very  embodiment  of  fun  and  frolic.  Like  a 
humming-bird,  she  never  was  still;  alighting  now  here, 
now  there,  wheresoever  were  sunshine,  sweetness,  and 
perfume.  One  day,  as  we  were  rambling  in  the  woods, 
we  sat  down  to  rest  under  a  tree,  after  our  frolicking. 
Some  little  word  of  mine,  as  I  drew  her  head  into  my  lap 
and  smoothed  the  hair  on  her  temples,  transformed  her. 
With  a  sharp,  quick  cry  of  agony,  she  threw  her  arma 
n— dd  38* 


450  LEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [PARTON 

about  my  neck,  weeping  as  I  never  saw  a  woman  weep. 
When  she  was  quiet  came  the  sad  story.  The  trouble 
battled  with,  and  bravely  borne.  The  short,  joyous  years ; 
then  the  long  days,  and  nights,  and  weeks,  and  months, 
so  full  of  desolation  and  bitterness,  and  life  yet  at  its 
meridian.  How  should  she  meet  the  long,  slow-moving 
years  ?  That  was  the  question  she  asked  me.  "  Toll  me 
how !  you  who  know — tell  me  how !" 

And  this  was  the  woman  I  thought  frivolous  and  pleas 
ure-seeking  !  Wearing  beneath  that  robe  the  penitential 
cross,  reminding  her  at  every  moment,  with  its  sharp 
twinge  of  pain,  that,  try  as  she  might,  she  could  never  fly 
from  herself. 

How  often,  when  I  have  been  inclined  to  judge  harshly, 
have  I  thought  of  that  Gethsemane  cry !  It  is  sorrowful 
how  we  misjudge  each  other  in  this  busy  world.  How 
very  near  we  may  be  to  a  warm  heart,  and  yet  be  frozen ! 
How  carelessly  we  pass  by  the  pool  of  Bethesda,  with  its 
waiting  crowd,  without  thinking  that  we  might  be  the 
angel  to  trouble  the  waters!  This  thought  is  often  op 
pressive  to  me  in  the  crowd  of  a  city  hurrying  home  at 
nightfall.  What  burden  does  this  man  or  that  woman 
carry,  known  only  to  their  Maker?  How  many  among 
them  may  be  just  at  the  dividing-line  between  hope  and 
despair!  And  how  some  faces  remind  you  of  a  dumb 
animal,  who  bears  its  pain  meekly  and  mournfully,  yet 
cringing  lest  some  careless  foot  should,  at  any  moment, 
render  it  unendurable;  haunting  you  as  you  go  to  your 
home  as  if  you  were  verily  guilty  in  ignoring  it. 

Have  you  never  felt  this?  and,  although  you  may 
have  been  cheated  and  imposed  upon  seventy  times  seven, 
can  you  wholly  stifle  it?  and  ought  you  to  try,  even 
though  you  know  how  well  the  devil  can  wear  the  livery 
of  heaven? 


OSWALD]  THE  RUINS  OF  UXMAL.  451 

I  think  it  is  this  that,  to  the  reflecting  and  observing, 
makes  soul  and  body  wear  out  so  quickly  in  the  city, 
— these  constantly-recurring,  unsolvable  problems,  which 
cloud  faith  and  make  life  terrible,  instead  of  peaceful  and 
sweet;  which  lead  us  sometimes  to  look  upon  the  little 
child,  so  dear  to  us,  with  such  cowardly  fear  that  it  would 
be  a  relief  to  lay  it,  then  and  there,  in  the  arms  of  the 
Good  Shepherd,  lest  it,  too,  stray  away  from  the  fold. 


THE  RUINS  OF  UXMAL. 

FELIX  L.  OSWALD. 

[The  author  from  whose  works  we  select  our  present  Half-Hour  is  a 
naturalist  of  rising  reputation  as  a  close  observer  and  an  attractive 
writer.  He  is  a  native  of  Belgium,  where  he  was  born  in  1845.  His 
works  are  "Physical  Education,"  "  Summerland  Sketches,"  "Zoo 
logical  Sketches,"  etc.  From  "Summerland  Sketches,"  an  enthusi 
astic  narrative  of  travel  in  the  tropical  region  of  Mexico,  Yucatan, 
etc.,  we  take  the  following  interesting  description  of  a  visit  to  the  most 
striking  of  the  forest-buried  cities  of  the  older  civilization  of  America, 
with  a  preliminary  account  of  the  original  discovery  of  these  extraor 
dinary  ruins.] 

" EVERY  tomb  is  a  cradle,"  says  Jean  Paul;  and  his 
apothegm  holds  good  wherever  the  organism  of  Nature 
exerts  its  functions  in  undisturbed  harmony.  Life  is 
the  heir  of  Death ;  every  mouldering  plant  fertilizes  an 
after-growth  of  its  kind,  and  if  the  races  of  mankind  suc 
ceeded  each  other  as  the  trees  of  the  forest,  a  superior 
spirit  might  view  the  decay  of  an  oak  and  of  a  nation 
with  equal  unconcern. 

But,  while  the  fading  flowers  of  the  old  year  may  con- 
sole  us  with  the  hope  of  a  coming  spring,  our  lament  over 


452  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [OSWALD 

the  withered  empires  of  the  Old  "World  has  a  deeper 
significance :  the  dying  nations  of  the  East  have  involved 
their  fields  and  forests  in  an  equal  fate  ;  the  lands  that 
know  them  no  more  have  themselves  withered,  and  no 
spring  can  restore  the  prime  of  an  exhausted  soil.  From 
Eastern  Persia  to  Western  Morocco,  Earth  has  thus  per 
ished  together  with  her  inhabitants :  Vishnu  has  resigned 
his  power  to  Shiva,  and  the  Buddhistic  Nirvan,  the  final 
departure  of  the  Genius  of  Life,  has  already  begun  for 
some  of  the  fairest  countries  ever  brightened  by  the  sun 
of  the  Juventus  Mundi. 

The  western  shores  of  the  Atlantic,  too,  have  seen  the 
rise  and  decline  of  mighty  empires :  the  ruins  of  Uxmal 
equal  those  of  Nineveh  in  grandeur  as  well  as  in  the  hope 
lessness  of  their  decay,  but  the  soil  of  Yucatan  has  sur 
vived  its  tyrants.  In  the  struggle  between  Chaos  and 
Cosmos  the  organic  powers  have  here  prevailed,  and  the 
sylvan  deities  have  resumed  their  ancient  sway. 

There  is  a  well-defined  ridge  of  tertiary  limestone  forma 
tion  which  divides  the  table-lands  of  the  eastern  peninsula 
from  the  wooded  lowlands  of  the  west,  and  the  ruins  of 
Uxmal,  Chichen,  Izamal,  and  Macoba  have  all  been  dis 
covered  in  the  western  timber-lands,  but  have  nowhere 
betrayed  their  existence  by  the  diminished  exuberance  of 
the  vegetation.  Their  walls  are  hedged,  interlocked,  and 
covered  with  trees,  and  while  the  Oriental  archaeologist 
has  to  grope  in  the  sand-drifts  of  burning  deserts,  his 
transatlantic  colleague  can  thus  pursue  his  studies  in  the 
shade  of  a  forest-region  whose  living  wonders  may  well 
divide  his  attention  with  the  marvels  of  the  past.  Eighty 
years  ago  the  district  of  Macoba  and  Belonchen  was  an 
unexplored  wilderness.  The  Jesuit  missionaries  of  Valla- 
dolid  had  recorded  an  Indian  tradition  about  the  vestigea 
of  a  giant  city  in  the  neighborhood  of  Merida,  but  their 


OSWALD]  THE  RUINS  OF  UXMAL.  453 

vague  descriptions  were  supposed  to  refer  to  the  large 
teocalli  near  the  convent  of  Sacrificios,  and  the  rediscovery 
of  the  Casas  Grandes  seems  to  have  been  as  complete  a 
surprise  to  the  citizens  of  Merida  as  the  exhumation  of 
Pompeii  to  the  burghers  of  Nola  and  Castellamare. 

The  great  treasure-trove  of  1829  has  often  been  ascribed 
to  the  Baron  Frederic  de  "Waldeck,  though  since  the  pub 
lication  of  his  memoirs  in  1837  his  countrymen  have  never 
claimed  that  honor.  His  subsequent  explorations  made 
Uxmal  the  Mecca  of  American  antiquarians,  but  the 
amusing  account  of  the  original  discovery,  as  given  in  the 
"  Voyage  Pittoresque,"  proves  that  in  archaeology,  not  less 
than  in  other  sciences,  the  better  part  of  our  knowledge 
is  what  Lessing  called  a  "  museum  of  collected  curiosities, 
discovered  by  accident  and  independently  of  each  other." 
On  the  evening  of  the  1st  of  November,  1828,  Don  Pancho 
Yegros,  a  Yucatan  planter,  and  his  guest,  Dr.  Lewis 
Mitchel,  a  Scotch  surgeon  of  Sisal  harbor,  returned  from 
a  hunting  expedition  in  the  Sierra  Marina,  and,  seeking 
shelter  from  the  threatening  weather,  happened  to  come 
across  an  Indian  wood-chopper,  who  guided  them  to  a 
sacristia,  an  old  Indian  temple  in  the  depths  of  the  forest. 
They  lighted  a  fire,  and,  having  noticed  some  curious 
sculptures  in  a  sort  of  peristyle,  the  Scotchman  proceeded 
to  inspect  the  interior  of  the  building.  The  masonry  was 
covered  with  dust  and  spider-webs,  but  the  application  of 
wet  rags  discovered  a  triple  row  of  bas-relief  decorations 
running  along  the  walls  horizontally  and  at  equal  inter 
vals,  and  between  the  roof  and  the  upper  lintel  of  the  door 
the  limestone  slabs  were  covered  with  small  figures  which 
seemed  too  irregular  for  simple  ornaments,  and  might  be 
hieroglyphic  symbols.  After  daybreak  the  Scotchman 
rummaged  a  pile  of  debris  behind  the  temple,  and  un 
earthed  the  torso  of  a  little  image,  which  he  pocketed 


454  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [OSWALD 

with  an  enthusiasm  that  puzzled  the  Spanish  planter  a« 
much  as  his  Indian  serf.  The  natives  were  unable  to  give 
any  satisfactory  account  of  the  building,  and,  taking  his 
leave,  the  doctor  requested  his  host  to  interview  the  old 
Indian  residents  of  the  neighborhood  in  regard  to  the 
problematic  temple,  and  rode  away  with  the  promise  to 
renew  his  visit  in  the  course  of  the  year. 

"  Isn't  it  strange,"  said  Don  Yegros  when  he  was  alone 
with  his  peon,  "  that  we  have  lived  here  for  a  lifetime 
without  suspecting  that  there  was  such  a  curiosity  in  our 
neighborhood?  Why,  that  caballero  tells  me  that  some 
of  his  countrymen  would  buy  those  pictured  stones  for 
their  weight  in  silver  I" 

"  He  gave  me  half  a  dollar  anyhow,"  chuckled  the  In 
dian.  "  He  ought  to  take  those  countrymen  of  his  to  the 
north  end  of  the  sierra :  in  the  chaparral  of  the  Eio  Ma- 
coba  there  is  a  square  league  of  ground  just  covered  with 
such  empty  old  buildings." 

The  hacendado  turned  on  his  heel :  "  Are  you  deranged  ? 
A  square  league  of  such  ruins!  You  do  not  mean  build 
ings  like  that  we  slept  in  last  night  ?" 

"  No,  sefior ;  very  different  buildings, — houses  as  high 
as  yours,  and  forty  times  as  long.  One  of  them  has  more 
rooms  in  it  than  there  are  tiles  on  your  roof,  and  long 
galleries  with  sculptured  heads  and  figures." 

Don  Yegros  stood  speechless  for  a  moment.  "  Mil  de- 
monios !"  he  burst  out  when  the  stolid  countenance  of  his 
serf  told  him  that  the  fellow  was  in  sober  earnest.  "  Why, 
in  the  name  of  your  five  senses,  could  you  not  tell  us  that 
a  minute  sooner?  Did  you  not  see  how  delighted  the 
caballero  was  to  find  that  one  old  broken  statue  ?" 

"  He  liked  it,  did  he  ?  Well,  I  didn't  know  that,  sefior. 
I  found  a  much  prettier  one  in  that  same  place  a  few 
years  ago,  and  took  it  to  our  village  priest,  but  came  very 


OSWALD]  THE  RUINS  OF  UXMAL.  455 

near  getting  a  good  hiding  for  it.  He  smashed  it,  and 
cursed  it  for  an  idolatrous  monster  and  me  for  a  monstrous 
idiot." 

"  Well,  so  you  are.  Get  on  that  horse  now,  and  I  give 
you  just  twenty  minutes  to  overtake  the  caballero  and 
bring  him  back  here.  Why,  man,  you  came  very  near 
missing  the  only  opportunitjr  you  ever  had  of  being  of 
any  use  in  the  world." 

The  caballero  and  the  opportunity  were  retrieved,  and 
on  the  next  day  the  peon  led  an  exploring-party  to  the 
jungles  of  the  Rio  Macoba,  where  they  had  to  make  their 
way  through  all  the  obstacles  of  a  pathless  wilderness, 
but  on  the  third  day  found  themselves  in  the  midst  of 
a  liana-shrouded  Pompeii,  and  entered  different  edifices 
whose  dimensions  so  far  exceeded  the  expectations  of 
their  archaeological  companion  that  he  decided  to  return 
at  once  and  carry  the  news  to  the  foreign  residents  of 
Sisal.  They  had  discovered  the  ruins  of  Uxmal,  which 
rival  those  of  Thebes  and  Persepolis  in  beauty  and  gran 
deur  as  well  as  in  extent,  and  stand  unequalled  and  un- 
approached  among  the  architectural  relics  of  our  own 
continent.  While  volumes  had  been  written  about  the 
clumsy  burrows  of  the  Mound-builders  and  the  naked 
brick  walls  on  the  Eio  Gila,  this  city  of  palaces  had  slum 
bered  in  its  forest  shroud,  unexplored  by  any  visitor  save 
the  prying  catamount  and  the  silent  tribe  of  the  tropical 
bats,  and,  but  for  the  accident  of  the  rain-storm  on  that 
November  night  of  1828,  might  thus  have  slumbered  for 
ever,  like  the  lost  Atlantis  in  her  ocean  grave.  .  .  . 

In  the  winter  of  1872  the  long-delayed  work  [of  investi 
gation]  was  commenced  in  earnest.  The  dimensions  of 
the  ancient  city  were  found  to  exceed  even  the  conjectures 
of  Baron  Waldeck.  The  muralla,  or  rampart-wall,  was 
traced  southward  to  a  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond  the  Eio 


456  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [OSWALD 

Macoba  and  east  to  the  foot-hills  of  the  Sierra  de  Belon- 
chen,  and  must  have  enclosed  an  area  of  at  least  twelve 
English  square  miles.  To  clear  such  a  space  of  its  jungle- 
maze  and  the  organic  deposits  of  centuries  would  have 
exhausted  the  scanty  appropriation,  and  the  trustees  of 
the  fund  had  to  content  themselves  with  clearing  the 
main  buildings  and  conpecting  them  by  avenues  with 
each  other  and  with  the  carriage-road  that  is  now  finished 
to  San  Lorenzo,  where  it  connects  with  the  old  military 
highway  to  Merida.  Even  thus  the  undertaking  could 
only  be  completed  by  employing  peons,  or  Indian  serfs, 
whom  the  neighboring  planters  volunteered  to  furnish 
gratis,  the  trustees  only  providing  their  food  and  the 
necessary  tools. 

For  the  same  work  of  destruction  and  obstruction 
which  the  fire-deluge  of  Mount  Vesuvius  accomplished  in 
a  single  night  has  here  been  effected  by  the  silent  progress 
of  arboreal  vegetation  and  decay  in  a  manner  which  illus 
trates  the  scientific  axiom  that  in  dynamics  force  and  time 
are  convertible  factors.  The  mixture  of  ashes  and  porous 
lava  which  covers  the  city  of  Pompeii  is  far  easier  to  re 
move  than  the  tegumen  of  mould,  gnarled  roots,  and 
tanglewood  that  has  spread  itself  over  the  ruins  of  Uxmal. 
Like  the  coils  of  a  boa-constrictor,  the  flexible  arms  of 
the  lianas  and  the  cordero-vines  have  wound  themselves 
around  the  columns  and  projecting  rocks;  nay,  forced 
their  sprouts  through  the  crevices  of  the  thickest  avails, 
sending  out  lateral  shoots  along  the  inner  surface,  so  that 
often  their  grip  can  only  be  broken  at  the  risk  of  break 
ing  the  building  at  the  same  time.  Trees  were  found 
which  had  incorporated  themselves  with  a  detached  pillar 
or  window-sill  after  wrenching  it  from  its  place,  or  by 
growing  completely  around  it  if  it  proved  immovable; 
and  it  has  been  supposed  that  the  remarkable  absence  of 


OSWALD]  THE  RUINS  OF   UXMAL.  457 

smaller  buildings  is  owing  to  this  cause.  They  were  dis 
integrated  by  trees  and  vines  that  had  fastened  themselves 
upon  them  and  in  the  course  of  their  growth  dislodged 
them  from  their  foundations.  Only  the  enormous  weight 
of  the  larger  edifices  could  preserve  them  from  the  same 
fate.  If  much  longer,  would  have  been  a  different  ques 
tion  ;  but  the  buildings  which  have  so  far  stood  their 
ground  are  now  probably  safe.  .  .  . 

[We  proceed  to  the  personal  investigations  of  the  author  and  his 
friends.] 

We  left  our  baggage  in  the  antechamber,  and  tethered 
our  mules  on  the  north  side  of  the  building  in  a  sort  of 
moat  with  plenty  of  grass  and  weeds.  Seen  from  the 
distance,  our  casa  resembled  a  Spanish  inn  with  a  Moorish 
court-yard  below  and  a  row  of  small  bedrooms  above,  but 
in  its  original  dimensions  it  seemed  to  have  extended  along 
the  entire  length  of  the  moat,  which  is  flanked  with  the 
vestiges  of  a  foundation- wall  for  a  distance  of  more  than 
sixty  yards  beyond  the  present  east  end  of  the  building. 
The  woods  behind  the  moat  are  intersected  by  a  similar 
wall,  which  at  different  places  rises  to  a  height  of  twenty 
feet.  "El  Quartel — the  Barracks — we  call  this  building," 
said  the  captain  :  "  the  large  hall  below  is  supposed  to  be 
the  drill-shed." 

No  other  ruins  were  in  sight,  but  on  the  summit  of 
a  rock-strewn  acclivity  the  woods  opened  and  revealed  a 
grayish  stone  pile  rising  like  a  mountain  rather  than  like 
a  building  from  a  wilderness  of  weeds  and  debris,  but 
assuming  "more  symmetrical  outlines  as  the  road  ap 
proaches.  A  quadrangular  esplanade,  with  a  range  of 
stone  steps,  leads  up  to  a  narrow  terrace  that  forms  the 
foundation  of  a  mound  of  Cyclopean  blocks,  house-shaped, 
but  craggy  and  cliff-like  from  the  massiveness  of  the  pillara 
ii.— u  39 


458  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [OswxLr 

and  walls.  The  entire  structure  rising  to  a  height  of 
eighty-four  feet,  with  a  facade  of  three  hundred  and 
twenty  and  a  circumference  of  eight  hundred  feet,  it 
stands  there  with  its  open  arid  desolate  doors  like  an  an 
tediluvian  skeleton, — "  La  Casa  del  Gobernador,  the  most 
massive,  though  not  the  highest,  of  the  main  buildings," 
says  our  guide. 

At  Uxmal  the  Spaniards  have  illustrated  that  talent  for 
nomenclature  which  has  made  them  such  useful  pioneers 
in  the  river-  and  mountain-labyrinths  of  the  New  World. 
All  the  houses,  temples,  and  caves,  and  even  the  more 
conspicuous  statues,  have  their  names,  most  of  them  sin 
gularly  appropriate  as  well  as  pretty.  If  Yucatan  was  a 
province  of  prehistoinc  Mexico,  and  Uxmal  the  state  cap 
ital,  the  house  on  the  double  terrace  must  have  been  the 
residence  of  the  governor.  These  high  portals  with  their 
carved  columns,  and  these  sculptured  walls,  were  not  built 
for  a  granary  or  a  fort,  and  the  character  of  the  bas- 
reliefs,  as  well  as  the  absence  of  altars  and  idols,  makes 
It  unlikely  that  the  edifice  was  a  temple. 

From  the  upper  terrace  to  the  third  story  the  walls  are 
entirely  covered  with  ornaments  that  might  be  described 
as  sculptured  mosaic,  each  figure  being  formed  by  a  com 
bination  of  carved  stones.  These  sculptures  represent 
human  heads,  colossal  figures,  fantastic  birds  and  quad 
rupeds,  and  every  variety  of  arabesques,  which,  viewed  at 
a  certain  angle,  give  the  walls  the  appearance  of  those 
rough-hewn  granite  blocks  our  architects  love  to  display 
over  the  entrance  of  a  tunnel  or  massive  gateway.  The 
lower  halls  are  partly  obstructed  by  a  pile  of  debris,  for 
the  range  of  stairs  leading  to  the  second  floor  has  fallen 
down,  and  has  been  replaced  by  a  wooden  ladder.  The 
most  interesting  rooms  are  on  the  second  and  third  floors, 
which  also  connect  with  outer  galleries  bordered  by  long 


OSWALD]  THE  RUINS  OF   UXMAL.  459 

balustrades  of  graceful  fretwork.  According  to  the  meas 
urements  of  Senor  Devegas,  the  walls  of  these  two  stories 
contain  thirty -four  hundred  yards — or  nearly  two  English 
miles— of  bas-relief,  most  of  them  at  a  height  of  about 
four  feet  from  the  floor,  and  running  along  the  wall  in  an 
unbroken  row,  the  lower  border  being  on  a  line  with  the 
lintels  of  the  windows  and  doors.  These  decorations  are 
often  coarse  in  execution  and  defective  in  the  details  of 
design,  but  the  total  impression  is  nevertheless  strangely 
pleasing.  There  are  long  processions  of  men-at-arms, 
groups  of  animals  and  stars, — the  latter  perhaps  astro 
logical  symbols, — and  countless  faces  (portraits  our  guide 
called  them)  in  profile,  some  of  them  distinguished  by  a 
turban-like  head-dress.  One  of  the  more  elaborate  groups 
represents  a  warrior  promenading  on  a  row  of  prostrate 
bodies,  probably  a  symbol  of  royal  power  if  not  a  memo 
rial  of  a  martial  triumph.  Another  shows  a  procession 
of  mutilated  men,  one-legged,  armless,  or  entirely  dismem 
bered,  which  our  cicerone  supposed  to  be  a  regiment  of 
veterans  returning  from  war,  but  which  may  possibly 
havj  had  an  allegorical  significance.  In  one  of  the  third- 
story  rooms  a  portion  of  the  floor  is  paved  with  a  coarse 
mosaic  representing  a  battle  between  light-armed  and 
naked  giants  and  warriors  of  smaller  stature  but  well 
equipped  with  a  panoply  of  heavy  arms.  The  faces  and 
attitudes  of  the  antagonists  are  well  distinguished,  and 
the  whole  conveys  the  impression  of  having  been  sug 
gested  by  an  actual  occurrence,  perhaps  an  encounter 
between  the  citizen-soldiers  of  the  ancient  empire  and 
some  savage  tribe  of  the  northern  forests.  It  has  been 
observed  that  the  black  marble  which  is  used  in  the  com 
position  of  these  and  other  mosaics  is  not  found  anywhere 
in  Yucatan,  and  must  have  been  brought  from  Central 
Mexico,  if  not  from  Cuba. 


460  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [OSWALD 

Before  the  arrival  of  the  present  superintendent  this 
building  was  infested  with  every  possible  variety  of  creep 
ers  and  air-plants:  in  the  basement  their  growth  was 
somewhat  checked  by  lack  of  sunshine,  but  in  the  upper 
stories  they  formed  a  continuous  tapestry  along  the  walls 
of  every  apartment,  and  vestiges  of  these  expletive  deco 
rations  still  defy  the  pruning-hook  of  the  mayoral.  The 
arm  of  an  idol  here  and  there  or  the  head  of  a  long- 
snouted  animal  is  wreathed  with  leaves  like  a  thyrsus-staff, 
and  many  of  the  coarse  arabesques  around  the  larger  re- 
tratos  are  mingled  with  the  delicate  folioles  of  a  twining 
grenadilla.  With  a  sort  of  vegetable  instinct,  most  of 
these  intruders  have  pierced  the  walls  at  places  where  the 
convolution  of  their  tendrils  is  favored  by  a  pilaster  or  the 
protuberances  of  a  bas-relief. 

The  next  turn  of  the  road  leads  to  the  plaza,  or  market- 
square,  a  partly-cleared  field  of  about  sixty  acres,  offering 
a  view  of  the  three  largest  and  most  interesting  buildings 
in  Uxmal, — the  Casa  de  las  Monjas,  the  Palomal,  and  the 
Casa  del  Enano.  The  largest  of  these — and,  indeed,  the 
largest  architectural  relic  of  our  continent — is  the  Casa  de 
las  Monjas,  the  "  House  of  the  Nuns,"  so  called  from  the 
vast  number  of  little  cell-like  apartments.  There  are 
eighty-seven  larger  and  half  a  hundred  smaller  rooms, 
besides  extensive  corridors  and  several  halls,  distributed 
over  a  three-story  building  of  four  wings,  which  enclose 
what  may  have  been  a  spacious  courtyard,  but  now  re 
sembles  a  neglected  garden. 

Entering  from  the  north,  you  pass  through  a  gateway 
supported  by  pillars  of  enormous  thickness,  and  an  inner 
vestibule  that  communicates  with  a  broad  gallery  or  in 
terior  veranda,  stone-paved  and  inviting  by  the  grotto-like 
coolness  of  its  shady  recesses.  The  builders  of  this  city 
were  not  acquainted  with  the  keystone  arch,  but  formed 


OSWALD]  THE  RUINS  OF   UXMAL  461 

their  vaults  by  overlapping  stones,  held  in  place  by  the 
weight  of  the  superstructure  and  covered  with  a  large  slab 
or  with  lintels  of  wood,  the  latter  being  found  over  every 
door  and  window  whose  horizontal  diameter  exceeds  two 
feet.  The  wood  used  for  these  lintels  is  of  iron  toughness 
and  texture,  and  has  been  identified  with  a  species  of 
lignum-vitae  that  is  found  in  the  mountains  of  Guatemala, 
but  nowhere  in  Yucatan  or  Eastern  Mexico.  From  the 
middle  of  the  first  flight  of  steps  upward  the  walls  are 
decorated  with  glaring  pictures,  checkered  and  polychro 
matic  like  a  collection  of  butterflies,  though  a  pale  carmine 
and  a  brilliant  golden  yellow  predominate.  Frescos  the 
mayoral  calls  them,  but  the  process  of  their  production 
seems  to  have  involved  a  preliminary  plastering  of  the 
walls  with  a  grayish-brown  substance  that  makes  an  ef 
fective  foil  for  the  brighter  tints,  and  the  employment  of  a 
very  durable  varnish  that  would  explain  the  freshness  and 
the  metallic  lustre  of  some  of  the  colors.  On  the  second 
floor  the  cells  begin,  and  monopolize  the  two  larger  wings 
of  that  story.  Few  of  them  are  provided  with  more  than 
one  aperture,  either  a  door  communicating  with  the  cor 
ridor  or  a  window  opening  upon  the  outer  gallery,  their 
average  size  being  five  yards  square  by  four  high.  Many 
cells  in  the  second  story  are  paved  with  polished  and 
variegated  marble  slabs,  while  the  walls  opposite  the  en 
trance  are  covered  with  pictures ;  and  if  the  dwelling  was 
a  nunnery  the  convent  rules  cannot  have  been  very  ascetic, 
the  character  of  these  retratos  being  decidedly  secular, — 
BO  much  so,  indeed,  that  some  of  the  artists  must  have 
belonged  to  what  poor  Southey  called  the  "Satanic  school." 
The  windows  are  festooned  with  rock-ivy  and  grenadilla- 
vines  with  small  red  pipe-flowers,  and  in  one  of  the  lower 
rooms  an  abeto-bush,  a  species  of  juniper,  has  forced  its 
way  through  the  masonry  of  the  floor  and  of  a  sort  of 
"n.  39* 


462  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [OSWALD 

stone  bench  near  the  window,  rising  from  the  flags  like  a 
Christmas-tree  from  a  table. 

All  the  cornices  and  window-sills  of  these  countless 
chambers,  all  the  balustrades  of  the  long  galleries  and 
the  balconies  overhanging  the  court,  are  ornamented  with 
bas-relief  figures,  colored  stuccoes,  and  sculptured  mosaic, 
carved  with  an  unrivalled  richness  and  variety  of  detail; 
and  if  it  is  true  that  a  portion  of  the  material  was  brought 
from  a  great  distance,  the  treasures  of  a  wealthy  empire 
must  have  been  lavished  on  the  Casa  de  las  Monjas.  Seftor 
Escalante,  an  intelligent  Mexican  architect,  estimates  that 
even  with  all  the  raw  material  on  hand  the  present  cost 
of  such  a  building  would  exceed  four  million  piasters,  and 
thinks  that  the  carvings  of  some  of  the  larger  pillars 
would  employ  a  hard-working  statuary  for  six  months. 
Bats  are  now  the  only  tenants  of  this  sculptured  Coliseum, 
since  a  colony  of  monos  chicos,  or  Mexican  raccoons,  that 
had  established  themselves  in  the  basement,  were  ejected 
by  order  of  the  mayoral.  .  .  . 

Proceeding  southward  and  upward,  we  reach  the  plat 
form  of  a  little  hill,  and  are  brought  face  to  face  with  a 
dome-like  pile  of  colossal  dimensions,  the  Casa  del  Enano, 
or  "House  of  the  Dwarf,"  so  called  from  the  narrowness 
of  the  sally-port,  which  is,  in  fact,  a  mere  loop-hole  in  what 
originally  may  have  been  the  second  story,  the  basement 
having  been  buried  by  avalanches  of  debris  that  have 
tumbled  from  the  decaying  walls.  A  tower  encircled  by 
galleries  that  contract  toward  the  top  is  the  nucleus  of 
this  pile,  and  leads  to  a  circular  platform  of  about  forty 
yards  in  circumference.  The  strength  of  this  central 
tower  has  supported  the  building,  but  the  galleries  with 
their  substructures  have  collapsed  all  around,  and  give  to 
the  whole  the  appearance  of  a  conical  mound  covered  with 
a  wilderness  of  broken  fragments  and  weeds.  Goats,  and 


OSWALD]  THE  RUINS  OF  UXMAL.  463 

even  cows,  frequent  the  slopes  of  this  artificial  hill,  and 
make  their  way  to  the  very  top,  where  mountain-breezes 
and  patches  of  rank  wall-grass  reward  them  for  the  some 
what  arduous  ascent. 

The  interior  of  the  edifice  forms  a  striking  contrast  to 
this  rustic  outside.  After  passing  (on  all-foui's)  through 
the  loop-hole  above  mentioned,  the  visitor  finds  himself  in 
the  vestibule  of  the  tower-hall,  which  he  enters  through 
a  portal  of  pillar-like  buttresses.  This  hall  seems  formerly 
to  have  been  lighted  from  above;  but  the  wall  on  the 
south  side  is  now  full  of  cracks  and  holes,  which  serve  as 
so  many  windows,  but  have  admitted  rain  as  well  as  sun 
shine,  as  attested  by  a  considerable  pool  at  the  lower  end 
of  the  sloping  floor.  The  wall  on  the  west  side  rises  like 
a  terrace  or  a  range  of  colossal  stairs,  tier  above  tier, 
receding  a  yard  and  a  half  after  every  three  yards  of  ele 
vation.  The  upper  tier  is  a  shapeless  mass  of  ruins,  con 
nected  with  the  ceiling  and  the  opposite  walls  by  a  net 
work  of  liana-coils,  some  of  which  have  become  detached 
with  the  crumbling  stones  and  hang  across  the  hall  like 
tight-ropes  in  a  circus-tent.  But  farther  down  the  verti 
cal  surfaces  of  the  terrace  are  covered  with  hieroglyphics, 
while  the  intermediate  levels  afford  seats  for  a  large 
assembly  of  "idols,"  as  the  Spaniards  call  them  indis 
criminately,  though  the  plurality  of  these  shapes  seems 
to  have  been  suggested  by  the  exigencies  of  symmetry, 
since  they  reappear  at  equal  intervals  from  a  common 
centre,  and  may  have  been  nothing  but  architectural  ex 
travaganzas,  like  the  caryatides  and  griffins  of  our  Gothio 
chapels.  The  human — or  rather  anthropoid — shapes  were 
idols,  to  judge  by  their  central  positions  and  heroic  pro 
portions,  and  some  of  them  are  as  composite,  though  not 
quite  as  monstrous,  as  the  divinities  of  a  Hindoo  pagoda. 

On  a  special  pedestal  about  four  feet  above  the  floor  sits 


464  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

a  four-armed  giant  with  a  disproportionately  large  but  not 
altogether  repulsive  face,  and  with  a  corselet  that  resem 
bles  the  scaly  hide  of  a  crocodile.  Two  of  his  arms  are 
akimbo ;  the  other  pair  are  extended,  with  the  palms  of 
the  hands  down,  as  if  in  the  act  of  delivering  a  bene 
diction.  Just  above  him,  on  the  third  terrace,  stands 
the  semi-torso  of  a  youth  with  a  coronet  of  spikes  or 
rays  upon  his  head  and  a  sort  of  rosary  wound  about 
his  waist.  Both  his  arms  are  broken  off  at  the  elbow,  but 
seem  to  have  been  lifted  above  his  head  or  to  have  sup 
ported  a  shield,  like  a  similar  but  smaller  statue  farther 
up.  The  figure  is  supposed  to  be  a  symbol  of  the  Chasca. 
or  evening  star,  whose  statues  in  the  old  Peruvian  tem 
ples  were  distinguished  by  a  halo  of  vertical  rays.  In 
the  menagerie  of  animals  and  animal  fragments  there  are 
six  elephants'  heads,  distributed  in  the  corners  of  three 
successive  tiers.  Whatever  they  are  intended  to  represent, 
the  curled  and  tapering  trunks  and  pendent  ears  are  de 
cidedly  elephantine,  and  even  the  small  piggish  eyes  are 
characteristic  of  pachyderms,  though  it  ought  to  be  men 
tioned  that  the  tusks  are  uniformly  omitted.  These  heads 
have  caused  a  good  deal  of  curious  speculation,  since  even 
the  illiterate  Yucatecos  know  that  only  imported  elephants 
have  ever  displayed  their  trunks  on  this  side  of  the  At 
lantic.  Did  the  fauna  of  prehistoric  Mexico  include  ele 
phants,  or  had  the  builders  of  this  city  preserved  traditions 
of  a  transatlantic  fatherland, — India,  Siam,  or  Southern 
Africa?  Or  may  it  be  possible  that  ante-Columbian  vis 
itors  from  the  East  had  carried  elephants,  or  the  pictures 
or  descriptions  of  such  animals,  to  the  "Western  World  ? 
Quien  sabef  But  it  would  certainly  be  curious  if  un 
assisted  fancy  had  produced  such  congruous  combinations. 
The  hieroglyphics  that  alternate  with  the  sculptured 
rows  are  subdivided  by  vertical  mouldings  at  irregular 


OSWALD]  THE  RUINS  OF   UXMAL.  465 

intervals,  forming  longer  or  shorter  quadrangles  that  seem 
to  enclose  separate  inscriptions.  Many  of  these  mouldings 
are  ornamented  with  a  sort  of  arabesque,  while  the  elabo 
rate  characters  are  strongly  suggestive  of  an  important 
meaning.  Different  recent  visitors  have  copied  such  in 
scriptions  in  extenso,  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  their  labors 
have  been  in  vain :  the  key  to  that  picturesque  alphabet 
has  been  lost  forever. 

The  ghost-ridden  natives  give  the  casas  a  wide  berth, 
but  the  House  of  the  Dwarf  is  an  object  of  their  especial 
dread.  Mezequenho,  the  Good  Spirit,  was  never  properly 
worshipped  by  the  citizens  of  Uxmal,  they  say;  and 
when  the  boundary  between  his  patience  and  his  wrath 
was  passed  he  turned  the  entire  population  into  stone  and 
confined  them  in  this  building.  But  after  sunset  the  pet 
rified  assembly  revives,  and  woe  to  the  wight  that  passes 
the  Casa  del  Enano  in  a  moonless  night !  The  north  side 
of  the  building  looks,  indeed,  as  fantastic  as  any  castle  in 
Fairydom :  a  lofty  dome,  crowned  with  a  tuft  of  vegeta 
tion  not  unlike  a  colossal  cactus  or  a  gigantic  skull  with  a 
wisp  of  hair  standing  on  end  and  bristling  in  the  breeze, 
while  the  shroud  of  creepers  forms  a  compact  mass  of 
foliage  from  the  middle  terrace — i.e.,  from  a  height  of 
sixty-five  feet — to  the  ground,  recalling  the  legend  of 
Dornrdschen's  Burg  circumvallated  with  a  rampart  of  wil- 
dering  roses. 

Southwest  of  the  Casa  del  Enano  there  are  different 
smaller  buildings,  too  rude  and  artless  or  too  far  advanced 
in  decay  to  merit  a  separate  description,  though  I  might 
mention  the  Casa  de  la  Yieja,  the  "House  of  the  Old 
"Woman,"  an  ivy-mantled,  snug  little  cottage  with  a  balcony 
and  a  single  alcove ;  and  the  Casa  Cerrada,  or  "  Closed 
House,"  a  cubic  mass  of  masonry  without  any  opening- 
whatever, — a  watch-tower,  perhaps,  or  a  mausoleum.. 
u. — ee 


466  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [OSWALD 

Besides  these  buildings  the  excavations  have  brought 
to  light  a  considerable  number  of  detached  statues,  ter 
races,  paved  court-yards,  etc.,  and  some  miscellaneous  ob 
jects  whose  significance  is  as  problematic  as  that  of  the 
hieroglyphics.  There  are  an  amphitheatre  and  an  artificial 
lake,  both  excavated  from  the  solid  rock ;  a  "  tennis-court" 
or  gymnasium,  paved,  and  encircled  by  a  low  wall ;  and  a 
nameless  rotunda  with  fragments  of  carved  columns.  On 
an  artificial  mound  northeast  of  the  Casa  Cerrada  stands 
a  double-headed  sphinx,  twelve  feet  long  and  five  feet 
high,  and  a  little  farther  back  a  six-sided  nondescript  cut 
from  a  single  block  and  with  a  polished  surface  about 
eight  feet  square.  Some  American  merchants  from  Sisal 
had  the  bad  taste  to  christen  it  the  "  Altar  of  Abraham," 
and  the  mayoral,  in  commemoration  of  their  visit,  now 
calls  it  the  "  Altar  of  Abraham  Lincoln,"  which  is  certainly 
worse ;  but  Lincoln  is  popular  in  Mexico. 

I  have  already  referred  to  the  open-air  museum  on 
the  river-terrace,  where  the  superintendent  has  amassed  a 
ship-load  of  idols  and  sculptured  tablets.  He  boasts  that 
he  has  hieroglyphic  slabs  enough  now  to  roof  the  largest 
building  in  Yucatan ;  and  the  excavations  which  are  still 
progressing  will  probably  increase  his  collection. 

Neither  the  descent  of  man  nor  the  purpose  of  the 
Pyramids  is  shrouded  in  deeper  mystery  than  the  origin 
of  these  ruins.  All  we  know  with  certainty  is  this :  that 
they  antedate  the  advent  of  Columbus  by  a  period  which 
reaches  far  beyond  the  oldest  records  and  traditions  of 
the  American  aborigines,  for  that  Uxmal  was  not  built 
by  the  Aztecs  is  positively  demonstrated  by  architectural 
and  archaeological  evidence,  and  indirectly  by  the  entire 
absence  of  local  tradition. 


TBRHTINK]  CARE  OF  THE  BODY. 

CARE  OF  THE  BODY. 

M.  V.  TERHUNE. 

["  Marion  Harland,"  under  which  pseudonyme  Mrs.  Terhune  has 
long  been  known,  is  the  author  of  numerous  popular  novels,  of  which 
the  first  published,  "Alone,"  has  been  most  widely  read.  Kecently 
she  has  entered  a  new  field,  in  her  "  Common  Sense  in  the  Household" 
and  other  works  on  domestic  economy,  and  her  "  Eve's  Daughters," 
"  Our  Daughters,"  etc.  Our  selection  is  from  "  Eve's  Daughters,"  a 
volume  full  of  sensible  and  excellently-presented  advice  to  women. 
Mrs.  Terhune  (Mary  Virginia  Hawes)  is  a  native  of  Virginia,  where 
she  was  born  about  1837.] 

THERE  is  nothing  in  the  history  of  human  folly  more 
egregiously  inconsistent  than  the  admixture  of  vanity 
and  aversion,  the  loving  care  and  gross  neglect,  manifested 
by  most  young  women  with  regard  to  their  bodies.  She 
whom  we  saw,  awhile  ago,  disdainfully  scouting  the  pros 
pect  of  intellectual  veneer  and  varnish,  concentrates  the 
attention  she  bestows  upon  her  physique  upon  the  exterior. 
The  hidden  works  rust  and  clog  and  are  worn  into  useless- 
ness  by  attrition,  disregarded  by  the  owner  who  should 
also  be  the  kindly  keeper.  It  is  true,  as  you  remind  me, 
that  the  body  is,  at  best,  but  the  vehicle  of  the  higher 
being,  the  spiritual  and  mental,  the  immortal  essence  that 
shall  outlive  by  all  eternity  to  come  this  crumbling  house 
of  our  pilgrimage,  this  urn  wherein  the  soul  tarries  for  a 
night.  So  the  train  that  bears  a  living  freight  of  a  thou 
sand  souls  from  the  eastern  to  the  western  ocean  is  but 
an  ingenious  combination  of  mechanical  powers.  What 
is  your  opinion  of  the  engineer  who  remits  his  watch  of 
every  joint  and  bar  of  the  locomotive,  who  lets  his  fire 
go  down,  or  the  boiler  run  dry  ? 

The  girl  who  devotes  an  hour  a  day  for  a  fortnight  to 


468  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

learning  how  to  "  do"  the  fantastic  scallops  of  her  fore- 
top,  or  to  dispose  her  hack-hair  in  a  graceful  coil  or  knot ; 
who  discourses  seriously  of  the  absolute  necessity  of 
spending  at  least  ten  minutes  each  morning  in  cleaning, 
trimming,  and  polishing,  by  help  of  a  dainty  set  of  uten 
sils,  the  finger-nails  that  in  consequence  of  this  atten 
tion  are  like  pink  sea-shells  or  curled  rose-petals ;  who 
studies  the  effect  upon  her  style  and  complexion  of  coif 
fure,  cut,  and  color  as  diligently  as  she  cons  Xenophon's 
Anabasis  or  Spherical  Trigonometry,  cannot  with  any 
show  of  reason  affect  contempt  of  her  corporeal  substance. 

She  does  love  her  body — the  outside  of  it — with  idola 
trous  affection  that  absorbs  and  dwarfs  many  worthier 
emotions.  Her  neglect  of  the  exquisite  machinery  it 
encases  is  as  puerile  as  it  would  be  to  pass  hours  in  bur 
nishing  the  outside  of  a  watch  she  never  takes  the  pains 
to  wind  up. 

If  I  return  once  and  again  upon  this  branch  of  our  sub 
ject,  it  is  because  of  my  conviction  that  imperfect  appre 
ciation  of  its  value  is  the  main  cause  of  the  national  in- 
validism  of  our  sex.  The  climate  has  to  do  with  it  in  so 
far  as  extremes  of  heat  and  cold,  long  rain,  deep  snows, 
and  spring  mire,  hinder  out-door  exercise.  But  if  mothers 
and  daughters  believed  in  the  need  of  physical  culture 
with  one-half  the  earnestness  they  feel  in  the  matter  of 
intellectual  improvement,  these  obstacles  would  lose  their 
formidableness  in  less  than  one  generation. 

I  hold  firmly,  furthermore,  to  the  opinion  that  the  rapid 
degeneration  of  women  foreigners  after  a  short  residence 
in  our  country  is  owing  chiefly,  if  not  altogether,  to  their 
adoption  of  certain,  and  those  the  least  desirable,  of  oui 
modes  of  life. 

Bridget,  whose  ideas  of  in-door  comfort  have  been 
formed  upon  the  smoky  interior  of  a  bog-trotter's  cabin 


TEBHTTNE]  CARE  OF  THE  BODY.  469 

wai'med  by  a  handful  of  peat  and  lighted  by  a  farthing 
rush-candle,  soon  learns,  with  the  prodigality  of  genuine 
parvenuism,  to  fill  the  range  up  to  the  warped,  red-hot 
plate  with  coal  at  five  dollars  a  ton.  She  demands  a  drop- 
light  upon  the  kitchen  gas-burner,  and  "wouldn't  do  a 
hand's  turn  in  a  situation  where  she  had  to  put  her  foot 
out  o'  doors  to  draw  water  or  to  fetch  in  kindlin'-wood  for 
the  fire."  Thin  boots  take  the  place  of  the  stout  brogans 
in  which  she  used  to  tramp  four  or  five  miles  to  market 
or  to  church  in  all  weathers.  Her  walks  are  now  confined 
to  a  stroll  in  her  best  clothes  to  church  on  Sunday,  and  to 
the  house  of  an  "  acquaintance"  after  dark  on  week-days. 
She  washes  in  a  steaming-hot  laundry,  and,  without  ex 
changing  her  wet  slippers  for  rubbers,  or  donning  shawl 
or  hood,  goes  into  the  windy  back-yard,  perhaps  covered 
with  snow,  to  hang  out  the  clothes.  The  climate  begins 
to  tell  on  her  after  a  year  or  two  of  this  sort  of  work, 
and  what  wonder  ?  If  these  violent  variations  upon  her 
former  self  and  existence  are  insufficient  to  break  her 
down,  there  are  not  wanting  accessories  to  the  unholy 
deed  in  her  close  bedroom,  where  the  windows  are  never 
opened  in  winter  unless  by  her  disgusted  employer ;  in 
the  mountainous  feather-bed  and  half-dozen  blankets  with 
out  which  she  is  quick  to  declare  that  she  "  could  not  get 
a  wink  o'  slape  at  night,  bavin'  been  used  to  kapin'  warm 
all  her  life."  Add  that  she  devours  meat  three  times  a 
day  with  the  rapacity  of  long-repressed  carnivorousnesa 
and  keeps  the  teapot  on  the  stove  from  morning  until 
night, — that  she  "could  live  upon  sweets"  of  the  most 
unwholesome  and  most  expensive  varieties,  and  abhors 
early  breakfasts, — and  we  wax  charitable  toward  our 
maligned  climate. 

Dr.  Beard  says  of  "American  women,  even  of  direct 
German  and  English   descent,"   "Subject  a  part  of  the 
ii.  40 


470  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [TERHUNB 

year  to  the  tyranny  of  heat,  and  a  part  to  the  tyranny 
of  cold,  they  grow  unused  to  leaving  the  house :  to  live 
in-doors  is  the  rule ;  it  is  a  rarity  to  go  out,  as  with  those 
of  Continental  Europe  it  is  to  go  in." 

Bridget  and  Gretchen  are  overgrown  children,  gross 
and  undisciplined.  If  one  of  them  bruises  her  head  or 
cuts  her  finger,  she  will  wail  or  howl  like  a  yearling  baby 
Without  work  they  cannot  have  savory  victuals  or  fine 
clothes:  hence  they  must  labor  so  many  hours  per  diem. 
Thought  and  planning  seldom  go  further,  especially  if  the 
settled  purpose  of  catching  husbands  whose  wages  will 
relieve  them  from  the  necessity  of  "living  out"  be  ac 
cepted  as  an  extension  of  their  clumsy  scheming. 

Still,  Bridget  is  an  imitative  animal,  and  develops  with 
civilization  into  a  sort  of  aptness  in  this  respect.  She 
apes  "  the  quality,"  while  affecting  to  consider  herself  as 
good  as  anybody  else.  Before  she  can  be  reformed,  her 
mistress  must  regulate  her  own  habits  and  those  of  her 
daughters  in  accordance  with  the  dictates  of  reason  and 
a  right  knowledge  of  established  hygienic  laws.  Our 
domestics, — Celtic,  Gaelic,  Teutonic,  American  of  African 
descent, — being  human  creatures  of  habit,  copy  their  em 
ployers'  language,  and,  to  some  extent,  their  bearing.  In 
some  instances  the  resemblance,  unintentional  though  it 
may  be,  is  absurdly  accurate.  The  maid  models  her  ap 
parel  after  that  of  the  young  ladies  of  the  house,  and 
grafts  upon  her  brogue  or  patois  the  intonations  of  her 
mistress.  These  are  tokens,  and  not  trivial  ones,  of  the 
involuntary  homage  paid  by  ignorance  to  knowledge. 
"When  Mrs.  Lofty  and  her  daughters  reckon  pure  air  and 
abundance  of  exercise  out-of-doors,  wholesome  food,  sound 
sleep  in  cold  rooms,  stout  shoes  in  wet  weather,  and  in 
variable  cleanliness  of  person,  among  the  necessaries  of 
life  and  requisites  to  beauty,  when  they  prohibit  feather- 


TERHUNE]  CARE  OF  THE  BODY.  471 

beds  as  unfashionable  abominations,  and  tea-tippling  as 
vulgar,  the  kitchen  cabinet  will  follow  suit,  slowly,  but 
inevitably. 

Until  then,  I  fear  that  "  the  sons  of  the  New  World" 
will  be  disappointed  in  the  effect  upon  the  next  genera 
tion  of  their  "  magnificent  experiment,"  should  their  fresh- 
blooded  foreign  wives  take  up  their  residence  in  America. 

The  simple  truth  is  that  the  expression  "  care  of  the 
health"  conveys  to  the  average  listener  the  instant  thought 
of  remedial  measures. — nothing  more,  and  nothing  less. 
It  is  unnatural,  argues  the  popular  intellect,  for  a  well 
person  to  think  constantly  of  preserving  bodily  soundness, 
unless  it  is  threatened  or  has  been  recently  imperilled.  A 
burnt  child  dreads  the  fire.  That  a  child  that  has  never 
been  scorched  should  habitually  keep  at  a  safe  distance 
from  the  flame  is  without  precedent,  if  not  opposed  to 
rational  expectation.  Yet  the  average  listener,  with  the 
popular  intellect,  if  he  is  a  man,  greases  the  wheels  and 
looks  to  the  linch-pins  of  his  wagon  before  he  sets  off  on 
a  journey;  has  the  sense  to  be  angry  with  himself,  as 
well  as  ashamed,  when  a  worn-out  breeching-strap  gives 
way  in  going  down-hill,  or  the  swivel-tree,  he  "  now  re 
members  has  been  cracked  this  great  while,"  snaps  asunder 
behind  a  skittish  horse.  The  dullest  household  drudge 
shakes  out  and  removes  the  ashes  and  adjusts  the  dampers 
before  she  makes  up  her  morning  fires. 

We  have  spoken  together,  and  more  than  once,  of  the 
propriety  of  creating  a  stomachic  or  dietetic  conscience. 
It  is  every  whit  as  important  to  cultivate  conscientious 
ness  in  all  respects  towards  the  oft-defrauded,  incessantly 
ill-used  body.  In  your  schedule  of  study  and  recreation, 
leave  blanks  to  be  filled  out  generously  by  the  fulfilment 
of  the  duties  you  owe  to  this  co-laborer  with  soul  and 
mind.  Do  not  be  startled  when  I  enjoin  that,  should  the 


472  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

mental  duty  clash  with  the  physical,  it  is  the  former  that 
ought,  with  a  young  growing  girl,  to  yield  to  the  asser 
tion  of  the  latter.  It  is  folly  in  a  sick  girl  to  study, — an 
error  which  she  should  perceive  instinctively,  however 
unversed  she  may  be  in  the  details  of  physiology.  In 
you,  who  know  why  the  blood  pumped  through  artery 
and  vein  thickens,  or  thins,  or  falters, — why  your  head 
aches  and  dumb  nausea  throw  the  cold  sweat  to  tho 
congesting  surface, — it  is  SIN. 

You  have  no  more  right  to  eat  or  drink  what  you  know 
will  disagree  with  your  digestion  than  you  have  to  drop 
a  furtive  pinch  of  arsenic,  just  enough  to  sicken  her 
slightly,  into  your  school-fellow's  cup  of  tea.  It  is  as 
truly  your  duty  to  eat  regularly  and  enough  of  whole 
some,  strength-giving  food,  wisely  adapted  to  your  needs, 
as  to  pray,  "  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread."  Faith 
without  sensible  works  does  not  brinsr  about  miracles  in 

o 

our  age.  There  is  the  same  sin  in  kind,  if  not  in  degree, 
in  omitting  your  "constitutional"  walk  to  study  a  hard 
lesson  you  would  like  to  make  sure  of  for  to-morrow,  that 
there  is  in  picking  your  neighbor's  pocket  or  cheating  her 
in  a  bargain.  Both  are  dishonest  actions,  and,  in  the  long 
but  certain  run  of  justice,  both  are  sure  to  be  punished. 
Put  yourself  in  thought  outside  of  your  body ;  make  an 
inventory  of  its  capabilities  and  necessities.  It  is  your 
soul's  nearest  neighbor.  See  to  it  that  the  soul  loves  it  as 
itself. 

If  your  teachers  are  sagacious  and  just  in  apportioning 
seasons  for  rest,  exercise,  and  recreation,  your  duty  is  the 
easier.  If  they  are  negligent  of  this  in  their  mistaken 
zeal  for  the  intellectual  advancement  of  their  pupils,  be  a 
higher  law  unto  yourself.  It  is  the  ignoramus  or  the 
shirk  who  waits  to  be  warned  by  the  ominous  creak  of 
the  wheel  that  the  oilless  axle  is  heated  and  a  break-down 


TERHUNE]  CARE  OF  THE  BODY.  473 

imminent.  It  may  be  "plucky"  to  persist  in  studying, 
with  a  blind  headache  that  would  distract  a  girl  of  weaker 
will  out  of  all  power  of  concentration.  It  is  undoubtedly 
foolhardy. 

I  have  in  my  mind  now  a  gifted  woman  who  told  me,  in 
the  course  of  a  talk  upon  the  conservation  of  forces,  how 
Hne  had  read  and  made  an  elaborate  digest  of  a  scientific 
treatise  while  her  head  was  bound  about  with  ice-cloths 
to  assuage  the  anguished  throbbing  of  her  temples,  and 
her  eyes  could  bear  no  more  light  than  the  one  powerful 
ray  admitted  between  the  curtains  to  fall  over  her  left 
ahoulder  directly  upon  the  page. 

Another  rash  adventurer  of  the  same  sex,  determined 
to  lose  no  time  in  her  musical  education,  was  propped  up 
in  bed  during  her  convalescence  from  a  spell  of  typhoid 
fever.  Her  exercise-book  was  set  up  before  her  on  a 
frame,  and  she  practised  first  thirty  minutes,  then  an  hour, 
finally  two  hours,  each  day,  in  dumb  show  upon  a  key 
board  pencilled  on  a  pillow.  She  has  been  in  her  grave  for 
twenty  years  now.  Her  friends  were  wont  to  tell  pride- 
fully  of  the  heroic  battle  with  languor  and  pain  I  have 
described,  and  regret  in  the  same  breath  that  "  that  fever 
left  her  a  mere  wreck.  "With  strength  and  health  she  would 
doubtless  have  accomplished  much  in  the  musical  world." 

The  heroine  of  headache  and  scientific  tastes  still  lives 
and  still  fights  with  bodily  ills  as  with  a  visible  Apollyon. 
She  cannot  walk  across  the  room  without  assistance,  so 
abject  is  the  ruin  of  the  nervous  system ;  and  in  every 
day  she  dies  a  hundred  deaths  with  tic-douloureux  and 
sciatica.  We  may  reiterate  here,  with  a  different  applica 
tion,  Dr.  Beard's  words : 

"  So  inevitable  was  this  result,  that,  had  it  been  other 
wise,  one  might  well  suspect  that  the  law  of  causation 
had  been  suspended." 

ii.  40* 


474  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

It  is,  then,  absurd,  and  as  cruel  as  foolish,  to  lash  on 
with  whip  and  spur  a  faithful  servitor  to  whom  you  owe 
the  liberty  to  study  at  all.  How  unwise  and  short-sighted 
is  the  self-will  you  vaunt,  let  an  abler  pen  than  mine  tell 
you,  and  in  formula  instead  of  illustration.  Dr.  Anstie, 
in  a  treatise  upon  "Neuralgia," — which  I  commend  to 
the  perusal  of  all  afflicted  with  that  malady, — thus  writes : 

"  In  the  abnormal  strain  that  is  being  put  on  the  brain  in 
many  cases  by  a  forcing  plan  of  education,  we  shall  per 
ceive  a  source  not  merely  of  exhaustive  expenditure  of 
nervous  power,  but  of  secondary  irritation  of  centres  like 
the  medulla  oblongata,  that  are  probably  already  somewhat 
lowered  in  power  of  vital  resistance  and  proportionably 
irritable." 

The  medulla  oblongata  is,  as  your  physiological  books 
have  taught  you,  a  marrowy,  oblong  body  connecting  the 
spinal  cord  with  the  brain.  To  strain  this  delicate  nerve- 
centre  is  to  deplete  the  nervous  tissues  more  rapidly  than 
they  can  be  repaired.  In  more  direct  terms,  it  is  to  sap 
the  citadel  of  Eeason  and  of  Life.  To  irritate  the  me 
dulla  oblongata  is  to  risk  brain-fever.  Excessive  mental 
application  without  recuperation  of  mind  and  body,  loss 
of  sleep,  stress  of  excited  thought,  particularly  upon  one 
agitating  theme,  are  both  strain  and  irritation. 

You  have  a  fixed  income  of  physical  energy.  Your 
"  pluck"  is  mental  force.  The  two  together  accomplish 
the  finest  results  of  which  human  kind  is  capable.  The 
bodily  powers  are  the  treasure-house  in  which  Nature  has 
deposited  your  wealth,  the  dowry  settled  upon  you  as 
your  birthright,  to  be  controlled  by  yourself  alone,  with 
your  parents  as  trustees  during  your  infancy  and  child 
hood.  Their  judicious  management  has  augmented  the 
original  deposit,  until  you  find  yourself  now  in  possession 
of  a  handsome  competency,  invested  in  stocks  that  will 


MITCHELL]        SPRING-TIME  AND  BOYHOOD.  475 

yield  fair  and  ample  returns.  "We  will  call  the  will-power 
or  moral  force  the  checks  that  draw  upon  the  invested 
sums.  So  long  as  only  the  regularly- accruing  interest  is 
used  up  by  your  daily  and  yearly  expenses  you  are  none 
the  poorer,  and  the  community  in  which  you  live  is  the 
richer  for  what  you  throw  into  general  circulation.  From 
the  day  in  which  you  begin  to  draw  upon  the  principal, 
the  interest  becomes  smaller.  The  necessity  of  accumu 
lation  obtrudes  itself  if  you  would  not  be  gradually  im 
poverished. 


SPRING-TIME  AND  BOYHOOD. 

DONALD  G.  MITCHELL. 

["Ik  Marvel,"  under  which  pseudonyme  Donald  G.  Mitchell  has 
long  been  known,  stands  as  the  author  of  several  beautifully-written 
books,  of  a  philosophically  reflective  character,  which  have  enjoyed  a 
high  degree  of  favor  with  the  reading  public.  The  "  Keveries  of  a 
Bachelor"  and  "  Dream-Life"  but  put  into  words  the  thoughts  which 
float  through  every  imaginative  mind,  and  in  reading  them  we  seem 
to  behold  our  own  waking  dreams  mirrored  on  the  printed  page.  Mr. 
Mitchell  is  the  author  of  several  other  works,  among  them  a  record 
of  a  tour  in  Europe,  and  "Dr.  Johns,"  an  ably-written  novel.  The 
selection  given  below  is  from  "  Dream-Life."  Mr.  Mitchell  was  born 
at  Norwich,  Connecticut,  in  1822.] 

THE  old  chroniclers  made  the  year  begin  in  the  season 
of  frosts ;  and  they  have  launched  us  upon  the  current  of 
the  months  from  the  snowy  banks  of  January.  I  love 
better  to  count  time  from  Spring  to  Spring :  it  seems  to 
me  far  more  cheerful  to  reckon  the  year  by  blossoms  than 
by  blight. 

Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre,  in  his  sweet  story  of  Virginia, 
makes  the  bloom  of  the  cocoa-tree,  or  the  growth  of  the 


476  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [MITCHELL 

banana,  a  yearly  and  a  loved  monitor  of  the  passage  of 
her  life.  How  cold  and  cheerless  in  the  comparison  would 
be  the  icy  chronology  of  the  North  ! — So  many  years  have 
I  seen  the  lakes  locked,  and  the  foliage  die ! 

The  budding  and  blooming  of  Spring  seem  to  belong 
pioperly  to  the  opening  of  the  months.  It  is  the  season 
of  the  quickest  expansion,  of  the  warmest  blood,  of  the 
readiest  growth  ;  it  is  the  boy-age  of  the  year.  The  birds 
sing  in  chorus  in  the  Spring, — just  as  children  prattle ; 
the  brooks  run  full, — like  the  overflow  of  young  hearts ; 
the  showers  drop  easily, — as  young  tears  flow ;  and  the 
whole  sky  is  as  capricious  as  the  mind  of  a  boy. 

Between  tears  and  smiles,  the  year,  like  the  child, 
struggles  into  the  warmth  of  life.  The  Old  Year — say 
what  the  chronologists  will — lingers  upon  the  very  lap 
of  Spring,  and  is  only  fairly  gone  when  the  blossoms  of 
April  have  strown  their  pall  of  glory  upon  his  tomb  and 
the  bluebirds  have  chanted  his  requiem. 

It  always  seems  to  me  as  if  an  access  of  life  came  with 
the  melting  of  the  winter's  snows,  and  as  if  every  rootlet 
of  grass,  that  lifted  its  first  green  blade  from  the  matted 
debris  of  the  old  year's  decay,  bore  my  spirit  upon  it, 
nearer  to  the  largess  of  Heaven. 

I  love  to  trace  the  break  of  Spring  step  by  step ;  I  love 
even  those  long  rain-storms,  that  sap  the  icy  fortresses 
of  the  lingering  winter, — that  melt  the  snows  iipon  the 
hills,  and  swell  the  mountain-brooks, — that  make  the  pools 
heave  up  their  glassy  cerements  of  ice,  and  hurry  down 
the  crashing  fragments  into  the  wastes  of  ocean. 

I  love  the  gentle  thaws  that  you  can  trace,  day  by  day, 
by  the  stained  snow-banks,  shrinking  from  the  grass,  and 
by  the  quiet  drip  of  the  cottage  eaves.  I  love  to  search 
out  the  sunny  slopes  under  some  northern  shelter,  where 
the  reflected  sun  does  double  duty  to  the  earth,  and 


MITCHELL]        SPRING-TIME  AND  BOYHOOD.  477 

where  the  frail  hepatica,  or  the  faint  blush  of  the  arbutus, 
in  the  midst  of  the  bleak  March  atmosphere,  will  touch 
your  heart,  like  a  hope  of  heaven  in  a  field  of  graves. 
Later  come  those  soft,  smoky  days,  when  the  patches  of 
winter  grain  show  green  under  the  shelter  of  leafless 
woods,  and  the  last  snow-drifts,  reduced  to  shrunken  skel 
etons  of  ice,  lie  upon  the  slope  of  northern  hills,  leaking 
uway  their  life. 

Then  the  grass  at  your  door  grows  into  the  color  of  the 
sprouting  grain,  and  the  buds  upon  the  lilacs  swell  and 
burst.  The  peaches  bloom  upon  the  wall,  and  the  plums 
wear  bodices  of  white.  The  sparkling  oriole  picks  string 
for  his  hammock  on  the  sycamore,  and  the  sparrows  twit 
ter  in  pairs.  The  old  elms  throw  down  their  dingy  flowers, 
and  color  their  spray  with  green  ;  and  the  brooks,  where 
you  throw  your  worm  or  the  minnow,  float  down  whole 
fleets  of  the  crimson  blossoms  of  the  maple.  Finally  the 
oaks  step  into  the  opening  quadrille  of  spring,  with  gray 
ish  tufts  of  a  modest  verdure,  which  by  and  by  will  be 
long  and  glossy  leaves.  The  dog- wood  pitches  his  broad, 
white  tent  in  the  edge  of  the  forest ;  the  dandelions  lie 
along  the  hillocks,  like  stars  in  a  sky  of  green ;  and  the 
wild  cherry,  growing  in  all  the  hedge-rows,  without  other 
culture  than  God's,  lifts  up  to  Him  thankfully  its  tremu 
lous  white  fingers. 

Amid  all  this  come  the  rich  rains  of  Spring.  The  affec 
tions  of  a  boy  grow  up  with  tears  to  water  them;  and  the 
year  blooms  with  showers.  But  the  clouds  hover  over 
an  April  sky  timidly,  like  shadows  upon  innocence.  The 
showers  come  gently,  and  drop  daintily  to  the  earth, — 
with  now  and  then  a  glimpse  of  sunshine  to  make  the 
drops  bright, — like  so  many  bubbles  of  joy. 

The  rain  of  winter  is  cold,  and  it  comes  in  bitter  scuds 
that  blind  you;  but  the  rain  of  April  steals  upon  you 


478  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

coyly,  half  reluctantly, — yet  lovingly, — like  the  steps  of  a 
bride  to  the  altar. 

It  does  not  gather  like  the  storm-clouds  of  winter,  gray 
and  heavy  along  the  horizon,  and  creep  with  subtle  and 
insensible  approaches  (like  age)  to  the  very  zenith ;  but 
there  are  a  score  of  white-winged  swimmers  afloat,  ihat 
your  eye  has  chased  as  you  lay  beguiled  with  the  delieiouH 
warmth  of  an  April  sun;  nor  have  you  scarce  noticed 
that  a  little  bevy  of  those  floating  clouds  had  grouped 
together  in  a  sombre  company.  But  presently  you  see 
across  the  fields  the  dark  gray  streaks,  stretching  like 
lines  of  mist  from  the  green  bosom  of  the  valley  to  that 
spot  of  sky  where  the  company  of  clouds  is  loitering; 
and  with  an  easy  shifting  of  the  helm  the  fleet  of  swim 
mers  come,  drifting  over  you,  and  drop  their  burden  into 
the  dancing  pools,  and  make  the  flowers  glisten  and  the 
eaves  drip  with  their  crystal  bounty. 

The  cattle  linger  by  the  watercourses,  cropping  eagerly 
the  firstlings  of  the  grass ;  and  childhood  laughs  joyously 
at  the  warm  rain,  or  under  the  cottage  roof  catches  with 
eager  ear  the  patter  of  its  fall. 

And  with  that  patter  on  the  roof— so  like  to  the 

patter  of  childish  feet — my  story  of  boyish  dreams  shall 
begin. 

It  is  an  old  garret,  with  big  brown  rafters;  and  the 
boards  between  are  stained  darkly  with  the  rain-storms 
of  fifty  years.  And  as  the  sportive  April  shower  quicKens 
its  flood,  it  seems  as  if  its  torrents  would  come  dashing 
through  the  shingles  upon  you,  and  upon  your  play.  But 
they  will  not ;  for  you  know  that  the  old  roof  is  strong, 
and  that  it  has  kept  you,  and  all  that  love  you,  for  long 
years  from  the  rain  and  from  the  cold  ;  you  know  that  the 
hardest  storms  of  winter  will  only  make  a  little  oozing 
leak,  that  trickles  down,  leaving  homely  brown  stains. 


MITCHELL]       SPRING-TIME  AND  BOYHOOD.  479 

You  love  that  old  garret-roof;  and  you  nestle  down 
under  its  slope  with  a  sense  of  its  protecting  power  that 
no  castle-walls  can  give  to  your  maturer  years.  Ay,  your 
heart  clings  in  boyhood  to  the  roof-tree  of  the  old  family 
garret  with  a  grateful  affection  and  an  abiding  confidence, 
that  the  after-years — whatever  may  be  their  successes  or 
their  honors — can  never  re-create.  Under  the  roof-tree 
of  his  home  the  boy  feels  SAFE  :  and  where  in  the  whole 
realm  of  life,  with  its  bitter  toils  and  its  bitterer  tempta 
tions,  will  he  feel  safe  again  ? 

But  this  you  do  not  know.  It  seems  only  a  grand  old 
place ;  and  it  is  capital  fun  to  search  in  its  corners,  and 
drag  out  some  bit  of  quaint  furniture,  with  a  leg  broken, 
and  lay  a  cushion  across  it,  and  fix  your  reins  upon  the 
lion's  claws  of  the  feet,  and  then — gallop  away !  And  you 
offer  sister  Nelly  a  chance,  if  she  will  be  good;  and  throw 
out  very  patronizing  words  to  little  Charlie,  who  is 
mounted  upon  a  much  humbler  horse, — to  wit,  a  decrepit 
nursery-chair, — as  he  of  right  should  be,  since  he  is  three 
years  your  junior. 

I  know  no  nobler  forage-ground  for  a  romantic,  venture 
some,  mischievous  boy,  than  the  garret  of  an  old  family 
mansion  on  a  day  of  storm.  It  is  a  perfect  field  of  chiv 
alry.  The  heavy  rafters,  the  dashing  rain,  the  piles  of 
spare  mattresses  to  cai-ouse  upon,  the  big  trunks  to  hide 
in,  the  ancient  white  coats  and  hats  hanging  in  obscuro 
corners,  like  ghosts,  are  great !  And  it  is  so  far  away  from 
the  old  lady  who  keeps  rule  in  the  nursery,  that  there  is 
no  possible  risk  of  a  scolding  for  twisting  off  the  fringe 
of  the  rug.  There  is  no  baby  in  the  garret  to  wake  up. 
There  is  no  "  company"  in  the  garret  to  be  disturbed  by 
the  noise.  There  is  no  crotchety  uncle,  or  grandmamma, 
with  their  everlasting  "  Boys,  boys !"  and  then  a  look  of 
such  horror  I 


480  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [MITCHELL 

There  is  great  fun  in  groping  through  a  tall  barrel  of 
books  and  pamphlets,  on  the  lookout  for  startling  pictures ; 
and  there  are  chestnuts  in  the  garret  drying,  which  you 
have  discovered  on  a  ledge  of  the  chimney ;  and  you  elide 
a  few  into  your  pocket,  and  munch  them  quietly, — giving 
now  and  then  one  to  Nelly,  and  begging  her  to  keep  silent, 
— for  you  have  a  great  fear  of  its  being  forbidden  fruit. 

Old  family  garrets  have  their  stock,  as  I  said,  of  cast 
away  clothes  of  twenty  years  gone  by;  and  it  is  rare 
sport  to  put  them  on,  buttoning  in  a  pillow  or  two  for  the 
sake  of  good  fulness ;  and  then  to  trick  out  Nelly  in  some 
strange-shaped  head-gear,  and  ancient  brocade  petticoat 
caught  up  with  pins,  and  in  such  guise  to  steal  cautiously 
down-stairs,  and  creep  slyly  into  the  sitting-room, — half 
afraid  of  a  scolding,  and  very  sure  of  good  fun, — trying 
to  look  very  sober,  and  yet  almost  ready  to  die  with  the 
laugh  that  you  know  you  will  make.  And  your  mother 
tries  to  look  harshly  at  little  Nelly  for  putting  on  her 
grandmother's  best  bonnet ;  but  Nelly's  laughing  eyes  for 
bid  .it  utterly ;  and  the  mother  spoils  all  her  scolding  with 
a  perfect  shower  of  kisses. 

After  this  you  go,  marching  very  stately,  into  the  nurs 
ery,  and  utterly  amaze  the  old  nurse,  and  make  a  deal  of 
wonderment  for  the  staring,  half-frightened  baby,  who 
drops  his  rattle,  and  makes  a  bob  at  you  as  if  he  would 
jump  into  your  waistcoat-pocket. 

But  you  grow  tired  of  this ;  you  tire  even  of  the  swing, 
and  of  the  pranks  of  Charlie ;  and  you  glide  away  into  a 
corner  with  an  old,  dog's-eared  copy  of  "  Eobinson  Crusoe," 
and  you  grow  heart  and  soul  into  the  story,  until  you 
tremble  for  the  poor  fellow  with  his  guns  behind  the  pal 
isade,  and  are  yourself  half  dead  with  fright  when  you 
peep  cautiously  over  the  hill  with  your  glass  and  see  the 
cannibals  at  their  orgies  around  the  fire. 


MITCHELL!       SPRING-TIME  AND  BOYHOOD.  481 

Yet,  after  all,  you  think  the  old  fellow  must  have  had  a 
capital  time  with  a  whole  island  to  himself;  and  you  think 
you  would  like  such  a  time  yourself,  if  only  Nelly  and 
Charlie  could  be  there  with  you.  But  this  thought  does 
not  come  till  afterward :  for  the  time  you  are  nothing  but 
Crusoe ;  you  are  living  in  his  cave  with  Poll  the  parrot, 
and  are  looking  out  for  your  goats  and  man  Friday. 

You  dream  what  a  nice  thing  it  would  be  for  you  to 
slip  away  some  pleasant  morning — not  to  York,  as  young 
Crusoe  did,  but  to  New  York — and  take  passage  as  a 
sailor;  and  how,  if  they  knew  you  were  going,  there 
would  be  such  a  world  of  good-byes ;  and  how,  if  they  did 
not  know  it,  there  would  be  such  a  world  of  wonder ! 

And  then  the  sailor's  dress  would  be  altogether  such  a 
jaunty  affair ;  and  it  would  be  such  rare  sport  to  lie  off 
upon  the  yards  far  aloft,  as  you  have  seen  sailors  in  pic 
tures,  looking  out  upon  the  blue  and  tumbling  sea.  No 
thought  now,  in  your  boyish  dreams,  of  sleety  storms,  and 
cables  stiffened  with  ice,  and  crashing  spars,  and  great  ice 
bergs  towering  fearfully  around  you ! 

You  would  have  better  luck  than  even  Crusoe;  you 
would  save  a  compass,  and  a  Bible,  and  stores  of  hatchets, 
and  the  captain's  dog,  and  great  puncheons  of  sweetmeats 
(which  Crusoe  altogether  overlooked) ;  and  you  would 
save  a  tent  or  two,  which  you  could  set  up  on  the  shore, 
and  an  American  flag,  and  a  small  piece  of  cannon,  which 
you  could  fire  as  often  as  you  liked.  At  night  you  would 
sleep  in  a  tree, — though  you  wonder  how  Crusoe  did  it, 
and  would  say  the  prayers  you  had  been  taught  to  say  at 
home,  and  fall  to  sleep,  dreaming  of  Nelly  and  Charlie. 

At  sunrise,  or  thereabouts,  you  would  come  down,  feel 
ing  very  much  refreshed,  and  make  a  very  nice  breakfast 
off  of  smoked  herring  and  sea-bread,  with  a  little  currant 
jam  and  a  few  oranges.  After  this  you  would  haul  ashore 
ii—v  //  41 


482  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [MITCHELL 

a  chest  or  two  of  the  sailors'  clothes,  and,  putting  a  few 
large  jack-knives  in  your  pocket,  would  take  a  stroll  over 
the  island,  and  dig  a  cave  somewhere,  and  roll  in  a  cask 
or  two  of  sea-bread.  And  you  fancy  yourself  growing 
after  a  time  very  tall  and  corpulent,  and  wearing  a  mag 
nificent  goat-skin  cap  trimmed  with  green  ribbons  and  set 
off  with  a  plume.  You  think  you  would  have  put  a  few 
more  guns  in  the  palisade  than  Crusoe  did,  and  charged 
them  with  a  little  more  grape. 

After  a  long  while,  you  fancy,  a  ship  would  arrive  which 
would  carry  you  back ;  and  you  count  upon  very  great 
surprise  on  the  part  of  your  father  and  little  Nelly,  as 
you  march  up  to  the  door  of  the  old  family  mansion,  with 
plenty  of  gold  in  your  pocket,  and  a  small  bag  of  cocoa- 
nuts  for  Charlie,  and  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasant  talk 
about  your  island  far  away  in  the  South  Seas. 

Or  perhaps  it  is  not  Crusoe  at  all  that  your  eyes 

and  your  heart  cling  to,  but  only  some  little  story  about 
Paul  and  Virginia ; — that  dear  little  Virginia !  how  many 
tears  have  been  shed  over  her, — not  in  garrets  only,  or  by 
boys  only ! 

You  would  have  liked  Virginia, — you  know  you  would ; 
but  you  perfectly  hate  the  beldame  aunt  who  sent  for  her 
to  come  to  France ;  you  think  she  must  have  been  like 
the  old  schoolmistress  who  occasionally  boxes  your  ears 
with  the  cover  of  the  spelling-book,  or  makes  you  wear 
one  of  the  girls'  bonnets,  that  smells  strongly  of  paste 
board  and  calico. 

As  for  black  Domingue,  you  think  he  was  a  capital  old 
fellow ;  and  you  think  more  of  him  and  his  bananas  than 
you  do  of  the  bursting,  throbbing  heart  of  poor  Paul.  As 
yet  Dream-life  does  not  take  hold  on  love.  A  little  ma 
turity  of  heart  is  wanted  to  make  up  what  the  poets  call 
sensibility.  If  love  should  come  to  be  a  dangerous,  chi- 


DWIGHT]    THE  NOTCH  OF  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS.     483 

valric  matter,  as  in  the  case  of  Helen  Mar  and  "Wallace, 
you  can  very  easily  conceive  of  it,  and  can  take  hold  of 
all  the  little  accessories  of  male  costume  and  embroidering 
of  banners ;  but  as  for  pure  sentiment,  such  as  lies  in  the 
sweet  story  of  Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre,  it  is  quite  beyond 
you. 

The  rich,  soft  nights,  in  which  one  might  doze  in  his 
hammock,  watching  the  play  of  the  silvery  moon-beams 
upon  the  orange-leaves  and  upon  the  waves,  you  can 
understand ;  and  you  fall  to  dreaming  of  that  lovely  Isle 
of  France,  and  wondering  if  Virginia  did  not  perhaps 
have  some  relations  on  the  island,  who  raise  pineapples, 
and  such  sort  of  things,  still. 

And  so,  with  your  head  upon  your  hand,  in  your 

quiet  garret  corner,  over  some  such  beguiling  story,  your 
thought  leans  away  from  the  book  into  your  own  dreamy 
cruise  over  the  sea  of  life. 


THE  NOTCH  OF  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 

[Our  present  selection  is  from  one  of  the  American  authors  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  The  list  of  these  authors  is  not  a  long  one,  yet  it 
contains  several  names  which  have  attained  a  high  position  in  tho 
literary  world,  and  among  these  that  of  Timothy  Dwight  must  he  in 
cluded.  He  was  a  native  of  Massachusetts,  where  he  was  horn  in 
1752.  He  died  in  1817.  His  first  literary  work  was  in  verse,  and  con 
sisted  of  "The  Conquest  of  Canaan,"  an  epic  poem  completed  when 
he  was  twenty-two  years  of  age.  He  wrote  much  other  poetry,  hut 
his  reputation  rests  upon  his  prose  works,  which  are  of  high  literary 
value.  They  are  mainly  theological.  His  "  Theology  Explained  and 
Defended"  has  heen  one  of  the  most  widely  read  of  such  works  in  the 


484  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [DwiGHT 

English  language.  Of  secular  writings  his  chief  work  is  "  Travels  in 
New  England  and  New  York,"  from  which  our  selection  is  taken.  It 
is  in  four  volumes,  and  is  highly  valuable  for  its  historical,  statistical, 
and  topographical  information,  and  for  its  record  of  American  society 
and  manners  in  the  early  part  of  the  present  century.  It  is  written  in  a 
fluent  and  glowing  style,  and  displays  close  observation  and  an  ardent 
love  of  the  beauties  of  nature.] 

THE  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains  is  a  phrase  appro 
priated  to  a  very  narrow  defile,  extending  two  miles  in 
length  between  two  huge  cliffs  apparently  rent  asunder 
by  some  vast  convulsion  of  nature.  .  .  .  The  entrance 
of  the  chasm  is  formed  by  two  rocks  standing  perpendicu 
larly  at  the  distance  of  twenty-two  feet  from  each  other ; 
one  about  twenty  feet  in  height,  the  other  about  twelve. 
Half  of  the  space  is  occupied  by  the  brook  mentioned  as 
the  head-stream  of  the  Saco  ;  the  other  half  by  the  road. 
The  stream  is  lost  and  invisible  beneath  a  mass  of  frag 
ments  partly  blown  out  of  the  road  and  partly  thrown 
down  by  some  great  convulsion. 

When  we  entered  the  Notch  we  were  struck  with  the 
wild  and  solemn  appearance  of  everything  before  us.  The 
scale  on  which  all  the  objects  in  view  were  formed  was  the 
scale  of  grandeur  only.  The  rocks,  rude  and  ragged  in  a 
manner  rarely  paralleled,  were  fashioned  and  piled  on  each 
other  by  a  hand  operating  only  in  the  boldest  and  most 
irregular  manner.  As  we  advanced,  these  appearances 
increased  rapidly.  Huge  masses  of  granite,  of  every 
abrupt  form,  and  hoary  with  a  moss  which  seemed  the 
product  of  ages,  recalling  to  the  mind  the  saxum  vetustum 
of  Yirgil,  speedily  rose  to  a  mountainous  height.  Before 
us  the  view  widened  fast  to  the  southeast.  Behind  us  it 
closed  almost  instantaneously,  and  presented  nothing  to 
the  eye  but  an  impassable  barrier  of  mountains. 

About  half  a  mile  from  the  entrance  of  the  chasm  we 


DWIGHT]    THE  NOTCH  OF  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS.     485 

saw,  iii  full  view,  the  most  beautiful  cascade,  perhaps,  in 
the  world.  It  issued  from  a  mountain  on  the  right,  about 
eight  hundred  feet  above  the  subjacent  valley,  and  at  the 
distance  of  about  two  miles  from  us.  The  stream  ran 
over  a  series  of  rocks  almost  perpendicular,  with  a  course 
so  little  broken  as  to  preserve  the  appearance  of  a  uniform 
current,  and  yet  so  far  disturbed  as  to  be  perfectly  white. 
The  sun  shone  with  the  clearest  splendor  from  a  station 
in  the  heavens  the  most  advantageous  to  our  prospect ; 
and  the  cascade  glittered  down  the  vast  steep  like  a  stream 
of  burnished  silver. 

At  the  distance  of  three-quarters  of  a  mile  from  the 
entrance  we  passed  a  brook  known  in  this  region  by  the 
name  of  the  Flume,  from  the  strong  resemblance  to  that 
object  exhibited  by  the  channel  which  it  has  worn  for  a 
considerable  length  in  a  bed  of  rocks,  the  sides  being  per 
pendicular  to  the  bottom.  This  elegant  piece  of  water  we 
determined  to  examine  further,  and,  alighting  from  our 
horses,  walked  up  the  acclivity  perhaps  a  furlong.  The 
stream  fell  from  a  height  of  two  hundred  and  forty  or  two 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  over  three  precipices ;  the  second 
receding  a  small  distance  from  the  front  of  the  first,  and 
the  third  from  that  of  the  second.  Down  the  first  and 
second  it  fell  in  a  single  current ;  and  down  the  third  in 
three,  which  united  their  streams  at  the  bottom  in  a  fine 
basin,  formed  by  the  hand  of  nature  in  the  rocks  immedi 
ately  beneath  us.  It  is  impossible  for  a  brook  of  this  size 
to  be  modelled  into  more  diversified  or  more  delightful 
forms,  or  for  a  cascade  to  descend  over  precipices  more 
happily  fitted  to  finish  its  beauty.  The  cliffs,  together 
with  a  level  at  their  foot,  furnished  a  considerable  open 
ing,  surrounded  by  the  forest.  The  sunbeams,  penetrat 
ing  through  the  trees,  painted  here  a  great  variety  of 
fine  images  of  light,  and  edged  an  equally  numerous 
ii.  41* 


486  REST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

diversified  collection  of  shadows;  both  dancing  on  the 
waters,  and  alternately  silvering  and  obscuring  their 
course.  Purer  water  was  never  seen.  Exclusively  of  its 
murmurs,  the  world  around  us  was  solemn  and  silent. 
Everything  assumed  the  character  of  enchantment ;  and 
had  I  been  educated  in  the  Grecian  mythology  I  should 
scarcely  have  been  surprised  to  find  an  assemblage  of 
Dryads,  Naiads,  and  Oreades  sporting  on  the  little  plain 
below  our  feet.  The  purity  of  this  water  was  discernible 
not  only  by  its  limpid  appearance  and  its  taste,  but  from 
several  other  circumstances.  Its  course  is  wholly  over 
hard  granite ;  and  the  rocks  and  the  stones  in  its  bed  and 
at  its  side,  instead  of  being  covered  with  adventitious 
substances,  were  washed  perfectly  clean,  and  by  their 
neat  appearance  added  not  a  little  to  the  beauty  of  the 
scenery.  .  .  . 

From  this  spot  the  mountains  speedily  began  to  open 
with  increased  majesty,  and  in  several  instances  rose  to  a 
perpendicular  height  little  less  than  a  mile.  The  bosom 
of  both  ranges  was  overspread,  in  all  the  inferior  regions, 
by  a  mixture  of  evergreens  with  trees  whose  leaves  are 
deciduous.  The  annual  foliage  had  been  already  changed 
by  the  frost.  Of  the  effects  of  this  change  it  is,  perhaps, 
impossible  for  an  inhabitant  of  Great  Britain,  as  I  have 
been  assured  by  several  foreigners,  to  form  an  adequate 
conception  without  visiting  an  American  forest.  When 
I  was  a  youth  I  remarked  that  Thomson  had  entirely 
omitted,  in  his  Seasons,  this  fine  part  of  autumnal  imagery. 
Upon  inquiring  of  an  English  gentleman  the  probable 
cause  of  the  omission,  he  informed  me  that  no  such  scenery 
existed  in  Great  Britain.  In  this  country  it  is  often  among 
the  most  splendid  beauties  of  nature.  All  the  leaves  of 
trees  which  are  not  evergreens  are  by  the  first  severe 
frost  changed  from  their  verdure  towards  the  perfection 


THE  NOTCH  OF  TH&   WHITE  MOUNTAINS.     487 

of  that  color  which  they  are  capable  of  ultimately  as 
suming,  through  yellow,  orange,  and  red,  to  a  pretty  deep 
brown.  As  the  frost  affects  diiferent  trees,  and  the  differ 
ent  leaves  of  the  same  tree,  in  very  different  degrees,  a 
vast  multitude  of  tinctures  are  commonly  found  on  those 
of  a  single  tree,  and  always  on  those  of  a  grove  or  forest. 
These  colors  also,  in  all  their  varieties,  are  generally  full, 
and  in  many  instances  are  among  the  most  exquisite  which 
are  found  in  the  regions  of  nature.  Different  sorts  of 
trees  are  susceptible  of  different  degrees  of  this  beauty. 
Among  them  the  maple  is  pre-eminently  distinguished  by 
the  prodigious  varieties,  the  finished  beauty,  and  the  in 
tense  lustre  of  its  hues ;  varying  through  all  the  dyes 
between  a  rich  green  and  the  most  perfect  crimson,  or, 
more  definitely,  the  red  of  the  prismatic  image. 

There  is,  however,  a  sensible  difference  in  the  beauty  of 
this  appearance  of  nature  in  different  parts  of  the  country, 
even  where  the  forest  trees  are  the  same.  I  have  seen  nf 
tract  where  its  splendor  was  so  highly  finished  as  in  the 
region  which  surrounds  Lancaster  for  a  distance  of  thirty 
miles.  The  colors  are  more  varied  and  more  intense ;  and 
the  numerous  evergreens  furnish,  in  their  deep  hues,  the 
best  groundwork  of  the  picture. 

I  have  remarked  that  the  annual  foliage  on  these  moun 
tains  had  been  already  changed  by  the  frost.  Of  course, 
the  darkness  of  the  evergreens  was  finely  illumined  by 
the  brilliant  yellow  of  the  birch,  the  beech,  and  the  cherry, 
and  the  more  brilliant  orange  and  crimson  of  the  maple. 
The  effect  of  this  universal  diffusion  of  gay  and  splendid 
light  was  to  render  the  preponderating  deep  green  more 
solemn.  The  mind,  encircled  by  this  scenery,  irresistibly 
remembered  that  the  light  was  the  light  of  decay,  au 
tumnal  and  melancholy.  The  dark  was  the  gloom  of 
evening,  approximating  to  night.  Over  the  whole  the 


488  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [DvriGUT 

azure  of  the  sky  cast  a  deep,  misty  blue,  blending,  toward 
the  summits,  every  other  hue,  and  predominating  over  all. 

As  the  eye  ascended  these  steeps,  the  light  decayed, 
and  gradually  ceased.  On  the  inferior  summits  rose 
crowns  of  conical  firs  and  spruces.  On  the  superior  emi 
nences,  the  trees,  growing  less  and  less,  yielded  to  the 
chilling  atmosphere,  and  marked  the  limit  of  forest  vege 
tation.  Above,  the  surface  was  covered  with  a  mass  of 
shrubs,  terminating,  at  a  still  higher  elevation,  in  a 
shroud  of  dark-colored  moss. 

As  we  passed  onward  through  this  singular  valley,  oc 
casional  torrents,  formed  by  the  rains  and  dissolving 
snows  at  the  close  of  winter,  had  left  behind  them,  in 
many  places,  perpetual  monuments  of  their  progress,  in 
perpendicular,  narrow,  and  irregular  paths  of  immense 
length,  where  they  had  washed  the  precipices  naked  and 
white,  from  the  summit  of  the  mountain  to  the  base. 

Wide  and  deep  chasms  also  at  times  met  the  eye,  both 
on  the  summits  and  the  sides,  and  strongly  impressed  the 
imagination  with  the  thought  that  a  hand  of  immeasurable 
power  had  rent  asunder  the  solid  rocks  and  tumbled  them 
into  the  subjacent  valley.  Over  all,  hoary  cliffs,  rising 
with  proud  supremacy,  frowned  awfully  on  the  world 
below,  and  finished  the  landscape. 

By  our  side,  the  Saco  was  alternately  visible  and  lost, 
and  increased  almost  at  every  step  by  the  junction  of 
tributary  streams.  Its  course  was  a  perpetual  cascade, 
and  with  its  sprightly  murmurs  furnished  the  only  con 
trast  to  the  majestic  scenery  around  us. 


WHITMAN]     SONG  OF  THE  REDWOOD-TREE.  489 

SONG  OF  THE  REDWOOD-TREE. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 

[We  can  only  say  of  Walt  Whitman's  poetry  that  it  is  never  likely 
to  become  popular.  Its  lack  of  rhyme  and  rhythm  reduces  it  to  the 
form  of  prose,  above  which  its  poetical  power  seldom  elevates  it.  It 
is  frequently  a  rhapsody,  without  beginning,  middle,  or  end,  and, 
though  full  of  imaginative  fervor,  and  with  many  passages  of  fine 
power,  there  is  an  apotheosis  of  the  grosser  bodily  element,  and  a  lack 
of  the  spiritual  element  of  thought.  The  poem  we  quote  has  a  deeper 
and  more  elevating  significance  than  is  usual  with  the  author,  and  if 
judiciously  pruned  might  take  high  rank  in  the  poetic  world.  Walt 
Whitman  was  born  in  1819,  at  West  Hills,  Long  Island.] 

I. 

A  CALIFORNIA  song, 

A  prophecy   and  indirection,   a  thought  impalpable  to 

breathe  as  air, 
A  chorus  of  dryads,  fading,  departing,  or  hamadryads 

departing, 
A  murmuring,  fateful,  giant  voice,  out  of  the  earth  and 

sky, 
Voice  of  a  mighty  dying  tree  in  the  redwood  forest  dense. 

Farewell,  my  brethren, 

Farewell,  0  earth  and  sky,  farewell,  ye  neighboring  waters, 

My  time  has  ended,  my  term  has  come. 

Along  the  northern  coast, 

Just  back  from  the  rock-bound  shore  and  the  caves, 

In  the  saline  air  from  the  sea,  in  the  Mendocino  country, 

With  the  surge  for  bass  and  accompaniment  low  and 

hoarse, 
With  crackling  blows  of  axes  sounding  musically,  driven 

by  strong  arms, 


490  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [WHITMAN 

Eiven  deep  by  the  sharp  tongues  of  the  axes,  there  in  the 

redwood  forest  dense, 
I  heard  the  mighty  tree  its  death-chant  chanting. 

The  choppers  heard  not,  the  camp-shanties  echoed  not, 
The  quick-eared  teamsters  and  chain  and  jack-screw  men 

heard  not, 
As  the  wood-spirits  came  from  their  haunts  of  a  thousand 

years  to  join  the  refrain, 
But  in  my  soul  I  plainly  heard, 

Murmuring  out  of  its  myriad  leaves, 

Down  from  its  lofty  top  rising  two  hundred  feet  high, 

Out  of  its  stalwart  trunk  and  limbs,  out  of  its  foot-thick 

bark, 
That  chant  of  tie  seasons  and  time,  chant  not  of  the  past 

only  but  the  future. 

You  untold  life  of  me, 

And  all  you  venerable  and  innocent  joys, 

Perennial  hardy  life  of  me  with  joys  'mid  rain  and  many  a 

summer  sun, 

And  the  white  snows  and  night  and  the  wild  winds  ; 
O  the  great  patient  rugged  joys,  my  soul's  strong  joys  un~ 

recked  by  man 
(For  know  I  bear  the  soul  befitting  me,  I  too  have  conscious' 

ness,  identity, 

And  all  the  rocks  and  mountains  have,  and  all  the  earth), 
Joys  of  the  life  befitting  me  and  brothers  mine, 
Our  time,  our  term  has  come. 

Nor  yield  we  mournfully,  majestic  brothers. 

We  who  have  grandly  filled  our  time  ; 

With  Nature's  calm  content,  with  tacit  huge  delight, 


WHITMAN]     SONG  OF  THE  REDWOOD-TREE.  491 

We  welcome  what  we  wrought  for  through  the  past, 
And  leave  the  field  for  them. 

For  them  predicted  long, 

For  a  superber  race,  they  too  to  grandly  fill  their  time, 

For  them  we  abdicate,  in  them  ourselves,  ye  forest  kings ! 

In  them  these  skies  and  airs,  these  mountain-peaks,  Shasta, 

Nevadas, 
These  huge  precipitous  cliffs,  this  amplitude,  these  valleys,  far 

Yosemite, 
To  be  in  them  absorbed,  assimilated. 

Then  to  a  loftier  strain, 
Still  prouder,  more  ecstatic,  rose  the  chant, 
As  if  the  heirs,  the  deities  of  the  "West, 
Joining  with  master-tongue  bore  part. 

Not  wan  from  Asia's  fetiches, 

Nor  red  from  Europe's  old  dynastic  slaugnter-house 

(Area  of  murder-plots  of  thrones,  with  scent  left  yet  of  wars 

and  scaffolds  everywhere"), 
~But  come  from  Nature's  long  and  harmless  throes,  peacefully 

builded  thence, 

These  virgin  lands,  lands  of  the  Western  shore, 
To  the  new  culminating  man,  to  you,  the  empire  new, 
You  promised  long,  we  pledge,  we  dedicate. 

You  occult  deep  volitions, 

You  average  spiritual  manhood,  purpose  of  all,  poised  on 

yourself,  giving  not  taking  law, 
You  womanhood  divine,  mistress  and  source  of  all,  whence  life 

and  love  and  aught  that  comes  from  life  and  love, 
You  unseen  moral  essence  of  all  the  vast  materials  of  America 

(age  upon  age  working  in  death  the  same  as  life), 


492  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.          [WHITMAN 

You  that,  sometimes  known,  oftener  unknown,  really  shape  and 

mould  the  New  World,  adjusting  it  to  Time  and  Space, 
You  hidden  national  will  lying  in  your  abysms,  concealed  but 

ever  alert, 
You  past  and  present  purposes  tenaciously  pursued,  maybe 

unconscious  of  yourselves, 
Unswerved  by  all  the  passing  errors,  perturbations  of  the 

surface  ; 
You  vital,  universal,  deathless  germs,  beneath  all  creeds,  arts, 

statutes,  literatures, 
Here  build  your  homes  for  good,  establish  here,  these  areas 

entire,  lands  of  the  Western  shore, 
We  pledge,  we  dedicate  to  you. 

For  man  of  you,  your  characteristic  race, 

Here  may  be  hardy,  sweet,  gigantic  grow,  here  tower  propor 
tionate  to  Nature, 

Here  climb  the  vast  pure  spaces  unconfined,  unchecked  by  wall 
or  roof, 

Here  laugh  with  storm  or  sun,  here  joy,  here  patiently  inure, 

Here  heed  himself,  unfold  himself  (not  others'  formulas  heed), 
here  fill  his  time, 

To  duly  fall,  to  aid,  unrecked  at  last, 

To  disappear,  to  serve. 

Thus  on  the  northern  coast; 

In  the  echo  of  teamsters'  calls  and  the  clinking  chains,  and 

the  music  of  choppers'  axes, 
The  falling  trunk  and  limbs,  the  crash,  the  muffled  shriek, 

the  groan, 
Such  words  combined  from  the  redwood-tree,  as  of  voices 

ecstatic,  ancient  and  rustling, 

The  century-lasting,  unseen  dryads,  singing,  withdrawing, 
All  their  recesses  of  forests  and  mountains  leaving, 


WHITMAN]     SONG   OF  THE  REDWOOD-TREE.  493 

From  the  Cascade  range  to  the  "Wasatch,  or  Idaho  far,  or 

Utah, 

To  the  deities  of  the  modern  henceforth  yielding, 
The  chorus  and  indications,  the  vistas  of  coming  humanity, 

the  settlements,  features  all, 
In  the  Mendocino  woods  I  caught. 

ii. 

The  flashing  and  golden  pageant  of  California, 

The  sudden  and  gorgeous  drama,  the  sunny  and  ample  lands, 

The  long  and  varied  stretch  from  Puget  Sound  to  Colorado 

south, 
Lands  bathed  in  sweeter,  rarer,  healthier  air,  valleys  and 

mountain  cliffs ; 
The  fields  of  Nature  long  prepared  and  fallow,  the  silent, 

cyclic  chemistry, 
The  slow  and  steady  ages  plodding,  the  unoccupied  surface 

ripening,  the  rich  ores  forming  beneath  ; 
At  last  the  New  arriving,  assuming,  taking  possession, 
A  swarming  and  busy  race  settling  and  organizing  every 
where, 
Ships  coming  in  from  the  whole  round  world,  and  going 

out  to  the  whole  world, 
To  India  and  China  and  Australia  and  the  thousand  island 

paradises  of  the  Pacific, 
Populous  cities,  the  latest  inventions,  the  steamers  on  the 

rivers,  the  railroads,  with  many  a  thrifty  farm,  with 

machinery, 
And  wool  and  wheat  and  the  grape,  and  diggings  of  yellow 

gold. 

in. 

But  more  in  you  than  these,  lands  of  the  "Western  shore 
(These   but  the   means,   the   implements,   the   standing- 
ground), 
n.  42 


494  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HoLLEr 

I  see  in  you,  certain  to  come,  the  promise  of  thousands  of 

years,  till  now  deferred, 
Promised  to  be  fulfilled,  our  common  kind,  the  race. 

The  new  society  at  last,  proportionate  to  Nature, 

In  man  of  you,  more  than  your  mountain-peaks  or  stalwart 

trees  imperial, 
In  woman  more,  far  more,  than  all  your  gold  or  vines,  or 

even  vital  air. 

Fresh  come,  to  a  new  world  indeed,  yet  long  prepared, 

I  see  the  genius  of  the  modern,  child  of  the  real  ana 
ideal, 

Clearing  the  ground  for  broad  humanity,  the  true  Amer 
ica,  heir  of  the  past  so  grand, 

To  build  a  grander  future. 


JOSIAH  ALLEN'S  WIFE  CALLS  ON  THE  PRESIDENT. 

MARIETTA  HOLLEY. 

[Of  recent  dialectical  works  of  humor  those  of  Marietta  Holley 
have  attained  an  extraordinary  popularity,  and  the  "  opinions"  of 
Josiah  Allen's  -wife  are  widely  quoted.  In  fact,  under  their  nonsense 
there  is  revealed  a  vein  of  shrewd  common  sense  which  appeals  to  all 
who  possess  a  shred  of  this  somewhat  uncommon  quality.  "  Josiah 
Allen's  Wife,"  "  My  Opinions  and  Betsy  Bobbet's,"  and  other  works 
of  the  author,  are  a  melange  of  ridiculous  conversations  and  sensible 
observations  on  general  subjects,  while  "Sweet  Cicely,"  her  latest 
work,  deals  with  keen  wit  with  the  questions  of  intemperance,  political 
rascality,  and  the  like  crying  evils  of  the  land.  Josiah  Allen  takes 
toe  political  fever  badly,  and  his  wife,  much  exercised  in  mind  thereat, 


HOLLET]    MRS.  ALLEN  CALLS  ON  THE  PRESIDENT.     495 

finally  concludes  to  visit  Washington,  and  take  the  advice  of  the 
President  on  the  disturbing  question.  This  interview  with  the  Presi 
dent  is  a  fair  example  of  the  author's  style.] 

AND  so  we  wended  our  way  down  the  broad,  beautiful 
streets  towards  the  "White  House. 

Handsomer  streets  I  never  see.  I  had  thought  Jones- 
ville  streets  wus  middlin'  handsome  and  roomy.  Why, 
two  double  wagons  can  go  by  each  other  with  perfect 
safety,  right  in  front  of  the  grocery-stores,  where  there  is 
lots  of  boxes  too ;  and  wimmen  can  be  a-walkin'  there  too 
at  the  same  time,  hefty  ones. 

But,  good  land  1  loads  of  hay  could  pass  each  other  here, 
and  droves  of  dromedaries,  and  camels,  and  not  touch  each 
ather,  and  then  there  would  be  lots  of  room  for  men  and 
wimmen,  and  for  wagons  to  rumble,  and  perioguers  to 
float  up  and  down — if  perioguers  could  sail  on  dry  land. 

Roomier,  handsomer,  well-shadeder  streets  I  never  want 
to  see,  nor  don't  expept  to.  Why,  Jonesville  streets  are 
like  tape  compared  with  'em ;  and  Loontown  and  Toad 
Holler,  they  are  like  thread,  No.  50  (allegory). 

Bub  Smith  wus  well  acquainted  with  the  President's 
hired  man,  so  he  let  us  in  without  parlay. 

I  don't  believe  in  talkin'  big  as  a  general  thing.  But 
thinks'es  I,  Here  I  be,  a-holdin'  up  the  dignity  of  Jones 
ville  :  and  here  I  be,  on  a  deep,  heart-searchin'  errent  to 
the  Nation.  So  I  said,  in  words  and  axents  a  good  deal 
like  them  I  have  read  of  in  "  Children  of  the  Abbey"  and 
"  Charlotte  Temple," — 

"  Is  the  President  of  the  "United  States  within  ?" 

He  said  he  was,  but  said  sunthin'  about  his  not  receiving 
calls  in  the  mornings. 

But  1  says  in  a  very  polite  way, — for  I  like  to  put  folks 
at  their  ease,  presidents  or  peddlers  or  anything, — 

"  It  hain't  no  matter  at  all  if  he  hain't  dressed  up ;  of 


496  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOLLEI 

course  he  wuzn't  expectin'  company.  Josiah  don't  drees 
up  mornin's." 

And  then  he  says  something  about  "  he  didn't  know  but 
he  was  engaged." 

Says  I,  "  That  hain't  no  news  to  me,  nor  the  Nation. 
We  have  been  a-hearin'  that  for  three  years,  right  along. 
And  if  he  is  engaged,  it  hain't  no  good  reason  why  he 
shouldn't  speak  to  other  wimmen, — good,  honorable  mar 
ried  ones  too." 

"  "Well,"  says  he,  finally,  "  I  will  take  up  your  card." 

"No,  you  won't!"  says  I,  firmly.  "I  am  a  Methodist! 
I  guess  I  can  start  off  on  a  short  tower  without  takin'  a 
pack  of  cards  with  me.  And  if  I  had  'em  right  here  in 
my  pocket,  or  a  set  of  dominoes,  I  shouldn't  expect  to 
take  up  the  time  of  the  President  of  the  United  States 
a-playin'  games  at  this  time  of  the  day."  Says  I,  in  deep 
tones,  "I  am  a-carrien'  errents  to  the  President  that  the 
world  knows  not  of." 

He  blushed  up  red ;  he  was  ashamed ;  and  he  said  "  he 
would  see  if  I  could  be  admitted." 

And  he  led  the  way  along,  and  I  follered,  and  the  boy. 
Bub  Smith  had  left  us  at  the  door. 

The  hired  man  seemed  to  think  I  would  want  to  look 
round  some ;  and  he  walked  sort  o'  slow,  out  of  courtesy. 
But,  good  land!  how  little  that  hired  man  knew  my 
feelin's,  as  he  led  me  on,  I  a-thinkin'  to  myself, — 

•'Here  I  am,  a-steppin'  where  G-.  "Washington  strode." 
Oh  the  grandeur  of  my  feelins' !  The  nobility  of  'em !  and 
the  quantity !  Why,  it  was  a  perfect  sight. 

But  right  into  these  exalted  sentiments  the  hired  man 
intruded  with  his  frivolous  remarks, — worse  than  frivo 
lous. 

He  says  agin  something  about  "  not  knowin'  whether 
the  President  would  be  ready  to  receive  me." 


BOLLEY]    MRS.  ALLEN  CALLS  ON  THE  PRESIDENT.     497 

And  I  stepped  down  sudden  from  that  lofty  piller  I  had 
trod  on  in  my  mind,  and  says  I, — 

"  I  tell  you  agin,  I  don't  care  whether  he  is  dressed  up 
or  not.  I  come  on  principle,  and  I  shall  look  at  him 
through  that  eye,  and  no  other." 

"Wall,"  says  he,  turnin'  sort  o'  red  agin  (he  was 
ashamed),  "have  you  noticed  the  beauty  of  the  didos?" 

But  I  kep'  my  head  right  up  in  the  air  nobly,  and 
never  turned  to  the  right  or  the  left ;  and  says  I, — 

"  I  don't  see  no  beauty  in  cuttin'  up  didos,  nor  never 
did.  I  have  heard  that  they  did  such  things  here  in 
"Washington,  D.  C.,  but  I  do  not  choose  to  have  my  atten 
tion  drawed  to  'em." 

But  I  pondered  a  minute,  and  the  word  "  meetin'-house" 
struck  a  fearful  blow  ag'inst  my  conscience  j  and  I  says, 
in  milder  axents, — 

"  If  I  looked  upon  a  dido  at  all,  it  would  be,  not  with 
a  human  woman's  eye,  but  the  eye  of  a  Methodist.  My 
duty  draws  me :  point  out  the  dido,  and  I  will  look  at  it 
through  that  one  eye." 

And  he  says,  "  I  was  a-talkin'  about  the  walls  of  this 
room." 

And  I  says,  "  Why  couldn't  you  say  so  in  the  first  place  ? 
The  idee  of  skairin'  folks!  or  tryin'  to,"  I  added ;  for  I 
hain't  easily  skairt. 

The  walls  wus  perfectly  beautiful,  and  so  wus  the  ceilin' 
and  floors.  There  wuzn't  a  house  in  Jonesville  that  could 
compare  with  it,  though  we  had  painted  our  meetin'-house 
over  at  a  cost  of  upwards  of  28  dollars.  But  it  didn't 
come  up  to  this — not  half.  President  Arthur  has  got 
good  taste ;  and  I  thought  to  myself,  and  I  says  to  the 
hired  man,  as  I  looked  round  and  see  the  soft  richness  and 
quiet  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  surroundings, — 

"  I  had  just  as  lives  have  him  pick  me  out  a  calico  dress 
11.— gg  42* 


498  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HoLLET 

as  to  pick  it  out  myself.  And  that  is  sayin'  a  great  deal." 
says  I.  "  I  am  always  very  putickuler  in  calico :  richness 
and  beauty  is  what  I  look  out  for,  and  wear." 

Jest  as  I  wus  sayin'  this,  the  hired  man  opened  a  door 
into  a  lofty,  beautiful  room ;  and  says  he, — 

''Step  in  here,  madam,  into  the  antick  room,  and  I'll  see 
if  the  President  can  see  you ;"  and  he  started  off  sudden, 
bein'  called.  And  I  jest  turned  round  and  looked  after 
him,  for  I  wanted  to  enquire  into  it.  I  had  heard  of  their 
cuttin'  up  anticks  at  Washington, — I  had  come  prepared 
for  it ;  but  I  didn't  know  as  they  was  bold  enough  to  come 
right  out  and  have  rooms  devoted  to  that  purpose.  And 
I  looked  all  round  the  room  before  I  ventured  in.  But  it 
looked  neat  as  a  pin,  and  not  a  soul  in  there ;  and  thinks'es 
I,  "  It  hain't  probable  their  day  for  cuttin'  up  anticks.  I 
guess  I'll  venture."  So  I  went  in. 

But  I  sot  pretty  near  the  edge  of  the  chair,  ready  to 
jump  at  the  first  thing  I  didn't  like.  And  I  kep'  a  close 
holt  of  the  boy.  I  felt  that  I  was  right  in  the  midst  of 
dangers.  I  had  feared  and  foreboded, — oh,  how  I  had 
feared  and  foreboded  about  the  dangers  and  deep  perils  of 
"Washington,  D.  C. !  And  here  I  wuz,  the  very  first  thing, 
invited  right  in  broad  daylight,  with  no  excuse  or  any 
thing,  right  into  a  antick  room. 

Oh,  how  thankful,  how  thankful  I  wuz  that  Josiah 
Allen  wuzn't  there ! 

I  knew,  as  he  felt  a  good  deal  of  the  time,  an  antick 
room  was  what  he  would  choose  out  of  all  others.  And  I 
felt  stronger  than  ever  the  deep  resolve  that  Josiah  Allen 
should  not  run.  He  must  not  be  exposed  to  such  dangers, 
with  his  mind  as  it  wuz,  and  his  heft.  I  felt  that  he  would 
Buckumb. 

And  I  wondered  that  President  Arthur,  who  I  had 
always  heard  was  a  perfect  gentleman,  should  come  to 


HOLLKY]    MRS.  ALLEN  CALLS  ON  THE  PRESIDENT.     499 

have  a  room  called  like  that,  but  s'posed  it  was  there 
when  he  went.  I  don't  believe  he'd  countenance  any 
thing  of  the  kind. 

I  was  jest  a-thinkin'  this  when  the  hired  man  come 
back,  and  said, — 

"  The  President  would  receive  me." 

"  Wall,"  says  I,  calmly,  "  I  am  ready  to  be  received." 

So  I  follered  him ;  and  he  led  the  way  into  a  beautiful 
room,  kinder  round,  and  red-colored,  with  lots  of  elegant 
pictures  and  lookin'-glasses  and  books. 

The  President  sot  before  a  table  covered  with  books  and 
papers ;  and,  good  land !  he  no  need  to  have  been  afraid 
and  hung  back ;  he  was  dressed  up  slick, — slick  enough 
for  meetin',  or  a  parin'-bee,  or  anything.  He  had  on  a 
sort  of  a  gray  suit,  and  a  rose-bud  in  his  button-hole. 

He  was  a  good-lookin'  man,  though  he  had  a  middlin' 
tired  look  in  his  kinder  brown  eyes  as  he  looked  up. 

I  had  calculated  to  act  noble  on  that  occasion,  as  I  ap 
peared  before  him  who  stood  in  the  large,  lofty  shoes  of 
the  revered  G-.  "W.  and  sot  in  the  chair  of  the  (nearly) 
angel  Garfield.  I  had  thought  that  likely  as  not,  entirely 
unbeknown  to  me,  I  should  soar  right  off  into  a  eloquent 
oration.  For  I  honored  him  as  a  President.  I  felt  like 
neighborin'  with  him  on  account  of  his  name, — Allen ! 
(That  name  I  took  at  the  alter  of  Jonesville,  and  pure 
love.) 

But  how  little  can  we  calculate  on  future  contingencies, 
or  what  we  shall  do  when  we  get  there !  As  I  stood  be 
fore  him,  I  only  said  what  I  had  said  before  on  a  similar 
occasion,  these  simple  words,  that  yet  mean  so  much,  so 
much, — 

"  Allen,  I  have  come  !" 

He,  too,  was  overcome  by  his  feelin's :  I  see  he  wuz. 
His  face  looked  fairly  solemn ;  but,  as  he  is  a  perfect  gee- 


600  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOLLBT 

tleman,  he  controlled  himself,  and  said  quietly  these  words, 
that,  too,  have  a  deep  import, — 

"  I  see  you  have." 

He  then  shook  hands  with  me,  and  I  with  him.  I,  too, 
am  a  perfect  lady.  And  then  he  drawed  up  a  chair  for 
me  with  his  own  hands  (hands  that  grip  holt  of  the  same 
helium  that  G.  W.  had  gripped  holt  of.  O  soul!  be  calm 
when  I  think  on't),  and  asked  me  to  set  down ;  and  con 
sequently  I  sot. 

I  leaned  my  umberell  in  a  easy,  careless  position  against 
a  adjacent  chair,  adjusted  my  long  green  veil  in  long, 
graceful  folds, — I  hain't  vain,  but  I  like  to  look  well, — and 
then  I  at  once  told  him  of  my  errents.  I  told  him — 

"  I  had  brought  three  errents  to  him  from  Jonesville, — 
one  for  myself,  and  two  for  Dorlesky  Burpy." 

He  bowed,  but  didn't  say  nothin' :  he  looked  tired. 
Josiah  always  looks  tired  in  the  mornin'  when  he  has  got 
his  milkin'  and  barn-chores  done,  so  it  didn't  surprise  me. 
And  bavin'  calculated  to  tackle  him  on  my  own  errent 
first,  consequently  I  tackled  him. 

I  told  him  how  deep  my  love  and  devotion  to  my 
pardner  wuz. 

And  he  said  "  he  had  heard  of  it." 

And  I  says,  "  I  s'pose  so.  I  s'pose  such  things  will 
spread,  bein'  a  sort  of  a  rarity.  I'd  heard  that  it  had  got 
out,  'way  beyend  Loontown,  and  all  round." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  was  spoke  of  a  good  deal." 

"  Wall,"  says  I,  "  the  cast-iron  love  and  devotion  I  feel 
for  that  man  don't  show  off  the  brightest  in  hours  of 
joy  and  peace.  It  towers  up  strongest  in  dangers  and 
troubles."  And  then  I  went  on  to  tell  him  how  Josiah 
wanted  to  come  there  as  senator,  and  what  a  dangerous 
place  I  had  always  heard  Washington  wuz,  and  how  I 
had  felt  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  lay  down  on  my  goose- 


HOLLKY]    MRS.  ALLEN  CALLS  ON  THE  PRESIDENT.     501 

feather  pillow  at  home,  in  peace  and  safety,  while  my 
pardner  was  a-grapplin'  with  dangers  of  which  I  did  not 
know  the  exact  size  and  heft.  And  so  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  to  come  ahead  of  him,  as  a  forerunner  on  a  tower, 
to  see  jest  what  the  dangers  wuz,  and  see  if  I  dast  trust 
my  companion  there.  "And  now,"  says  I,  "I  want  you 
to  tell  me  candid,"  says  I.  "  Your  settin'  in  George  Wash 
ington's  high  chair  makes  me  look  up  to  you.  It  is  a 
sightly  place;  you  can  see  fur;  your  name  bein'  Allen 
makes  me  feel  sort  o'  confidential  and  good  towards  you, 
and  I  want  you  to  talk  real  honest  and  candid  with 
me."  Says  I,  solemnly,  "  I  ask  you,  Allen,  not  as  a  poli 
tician,  but  as  a  human  bein',  would  you  dast  to  let  Josiah 
come  ?" 

Says  he,  "  The  danger  to  the  man  and  the  nation  de 
pends  a  good  deal  on  what  sort  of  a  man  it  is  that  comes." 

Then  was  a  tryin'  time  for  me.  I  would  not  lie,  neither 
would  I  brook  one  word  against  my  companion,  even  from 
myself.  So  I  says, — 

"  He  is  a  man  that  has  traits  and  qualities,  and  sights 
of  'em." 

But,  thinkin'  that  I  must  do  so,  if  I  got  true  informa 
tion  of  dangers,  I  went  on,  and  told  of  Josiah's  political 
aims,  which  I  considered  dangerous  to  himself  and  the 
nation.  And  I  told  him  of  The  Plan,  and  my  dark  fore- 
bodin's  about  it. 

The  President  didn't  act  surprised  a  mite.  And  finally 
he  told  me,  what  I  had  always  mistrusted,  but  never  knew, 
that  Josiah  had  wrote  to  him  all  his  political  views  and 
aspirations,  and  offered  his  help  to  the  government.  And 
says  he,  "  I  think  I  know  all  about  the  man." 

"  Then,"  says  I,  "  you  see  he  is  a  good  deal  like  other 
men." 

And  he  said,  sort  o'  dreamily,  "  that  he  was." 


502  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [HOLLET 

And  then  again  silence  rained.  He  was  a-thinkin',  I 
knew,  on  all  the  deep  dangers  that  hedged  in  Josiah  Allen 
and  America  if  he  come.  And  a-musin'  on  all  the  proba 
ble  dangers  of  the  Plan.  And  a-thinkin'  it  over  how  to 
do  jest  right  in  the  matter, — right  by  Josiah,  right  by  the 
nation,  right  by  me. 

Finally  the  suspense  of  the  moment  wore  onto  me  too 
deep  to  bear,  and  I  says,  in  almost  harrowin'  tones  of 
anxiety  and  suspense, — 

""Would  it  be  safe  for  my  pardner  to  come  to  Washing 
ton  ?  "Would  it  be  safe  for  Josiah,  safe  for  the  nation  ?" 
Says  I,  in  deeper,  mournfuller  tones, — 

"  "Would  you — would  you  dast  to  let  him  come  ?" 

He  said,  sort  o'  dreamily,  "  that  those  views  and  aspira 
tions  of  Josiah's  wasn't  really  needed  at  Washington,  they 
had  plenty  of  them  there ;  and " 

But  I  says,  "  I  must  have  a  plainer  answer  to  ease  my 
mind  and  heart.  Do  tell  me  plain, — would  you  dast  ?" 

He  looked  full  at  me.  He  has  got  good,  honest-looking 
eyes,  and  a  sensible,  candid  look  onto  him.  He  liked  me, 
— I  knew  he  did  from  his  looks, — a  calm,  Methodist-Epis 
copal  likin', — nothin'  light. 

And  I  see  in  them  eyes  that  he  didn't  like  Josiah's 
political  idees.  I  see  that  he  was  afraid,  as  afraid  as  death, 
of  that  plan ;  and  I  see  that  he  considered  Washington  as 
a  dangerous,  dangerous  place  for  grangers  and  Josiah 
Aliens  to  be  a-roamin'  round  in.  I  could  see  that  he 
dreaded  the  sufferin's  for  me  and  for  the  nation  if  the 
Hon.  Josiah  Allen  was  elected. 

But  still  he  seemed  to  hate  to  speak ;  and  wise,  cautious 
conservatism,  and  gentlemanly  dignity,  was  wrote  down 
on  his  linement.  Even  the  red  rose-bud  in  his  button 
hole  looked  dretful  good-natured,  but  close-mouthed. 

I  don't  know  as  he  would  have  spoke  at  all  agin,  if  I 


I'HELPS]  DEACON  qUIRK'S  OPINIONS.  503 

hadn't  uttered  once  more  them  soul -harro win'  words, 
"  Would  you  dost  ?" 

Pity  and  good  feelin'  then  seemed  to  overpower  for  a 
moment  the  statesman  and  courteous  diplomat. 

And  he  said,  in  gentle,  gracious  tones,  "  If  I  tell  you 
just  what  I  think,  I  would  not  like  to  say  it  officially,  but 
would  say  it  in  confidence,  as  from  an  Allen  to  an  Allen." 

Says  I,  "  It  sha'n't  go  no  further." 

And  so  I  would  warn  everybody  that  it  must  not  be 
told. 

Then  says  he,  "  I  will  tell  you.     I  wouldn't  dast." 

Says  I,  "  That  settles  it.  If  human  efforts  can  avail, 
Josiah  Allen  will  not  be  United  States  Senator."  And 
says  I,  "You  have  only  confirmed  my  fears.  I  knew, 
feelin'  as  he  felt,  that  it  wuzn't  safe  for  Josiah  or  the  nation 
to  have  him  come." 

Agin  he  reminded  me  that  it  was  told  to  me  in  confi 
dence,  and  agin  I  want  to  say  that  it  must  be  kep'. 


DEACON  QUIRK'S  OPINIONS. 

E.  S.  PHELPS. 

[Among  the  many  original  and  highly-interesting  stories  of  Eliza 
beth  Stuart  Phelps,  "  The  Gates  Ajar,"  from  which  our  selection  is 
taken,  has  attained  the  highest  popularity,  from  its  original  method  of 
dealing  with  a  question  of  absorbing  importance.  The  long-entertained 
idea  of  the  conditions  of  life  in  heaven  has  grown  to  appear  sadly 
lacking  in  the  elements  of  probability,  and  for  years  has  failed  to  ap 
peal  to  the  judgment  of  thinkers.  Yet  Miss  Phelps  was  the  first  to 
attack  it  strongly  in  a  work  adapted  to  popular  reading,  and  to  put 
upon  record  a  more  probable  view  of  the  heavenly  conditions  and 
occupations.  The  avidity  with  which  the  work  has  been  read — it 


504  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [PHELPS 

having  reached  a  sale  of  nearly  fifty  thousand — shows  that  it  appealed 
to  a  wide-spread  secret  sentiment  and  struck  the  key-note  of  a  new 
range  of  views  concerning  celestial  happiness.  Her  other  works,  "  The 
Story  of  Avis,"  "  Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts,"  etc.,  are  equally  original 
and  attractive  in  style.  Miss  Phelps  was  born  in  Boston  in  1844. 
Her  mother,  of  the  same  name,  was  the  author  of  "Sunnyside,"  "A 
Peep  at  Number  Five,"  and  other  works,  once  widely  popular.] 

AUNT  WINIFRED  has  been  hunting  up  a  Sunday-school 
class  for  herself  and  one  for  me ;  which  is  a  venture  that 
I  never  was  persuaded  into  undertaking  before.  She  her 
self  is  fast  becoming  acquainted  with  the  poorer  people 
of  the  town. 

I  find  that  she  is  a  thoroughly  busy  Christian,  with  a 
certain  "  week-day  holiness"  that  is  strong  and  refreshing, 
like  a  west  wind.  Church-going,  and  conversations  on 
heaven,  by  no  means  exhaust  her  vitality. 

She  told  me  a  pretty  thing  about  her  class :  it  happened 
the  first  Sabbath  that  she  took  it.  Her  scholars  are  young 
girls  of  from  fourteen  to  eighteen  years  of  age,  children 
of  church-members,  most  of  them.  She  seemed  to  have 
taken  their  hearts  by  storm.  She  says,  "  They  treated 
me  very  prettily,  and  made  me  love  them  at  once." 

Clo  Bentley  is  in  the  class;  Clo  is  a  pretty,  soft-eyed 
little  creature,  with  a  shrinking  mouth,  and  an  absorbing 
passion  for  music,  which  she  has  always  been  too  poor  to 
gratify.  I  suspect  that  her  teacher  will  make  a  pet  of 
her.  She  says  that  in  the  course  of  her  lesson,  or,  in  her 
words, — 

"  While  we  were  all  talking  together,  somebody  pulled 
my  sleeve,  and  there  was  Clo  in  the  corner,  with  her  great 
brown  eyes  fixed  on  me.  '  See  here !'  she  said,  in  a  whis 
per,  '  I  can't  be  good !  I  would  be  good  if  I  could  only 
just  have  a  piano.' 

" '  Well,  Clo,'  I  said,  '  if  you  will  be  a  good  girl,  and  go 


PHELPS]  DEACON  QUIRK'S  OPINIONS.  505 

to  heaven,  I  think  you  will  have  a  piano  there,  and  play 
just  as  much  as  you  care  to.' 

"  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  look  the  child  gave  me ! 
Delight  and  fear  and  incredulous  bewilderment  tumbled 
over  each  other,  as  if  I  had  proposed  taking  her  into  a 
forbidden  fairy-land. 

" '  Why,  Mrs.  Forceythe !  Why,  they  won't  let  anybody 
have  a  piano  up  there !  not  in  heaven  T 

"  I  iaid  down  the  question-book,  and  asked  what  kind 
of  place  she  supposed  that  heaven  was  going  to  be. 

" '  Oh,'  she  said,  with  a  dreary  sigh,  '  I  never  think 
about  it  when  I  can  help  it.  I  suppose  we  shall  all  just 
stand  there !' 

'"And  you?'  I  asked  of  the  next,  a  bright  girl  with 
snapping  eyes. 

"  '  Do  you  want  me  to  talk  good,  or  tell  the  truth  ?'  she 
answered  me.  Having  been  given  to  understand  that  she 
was  not  expected  to  'talk  good'  in  my  class,  she  said, 
with  an  approving,  decided  nod,  '  Well,  then !  I  don't 
think  it's  going  to  be  anything  nice  anyway.  No,  I  don't ! 
I  told  my  last  teacher  so,  and  she  looked  just  as  shocked, 
and  said  I  never  should  go  there  as  long  as  I  felt  so. 
That  made  me  mad,  and  I  told  her  I  didn't  see  but  I 
should  be  as  well  off  in  one  place  as  another,  except  for 
the  fire.' 

"  A  silent  girl  in  the  corner  began  at  this  point  to  look 
interested.  '  I  always  supposed,'  said  she,  '  that  you  just 
floated  round  in  heaven — you  know — all  together — some 
thing  like  jujube  paste !' 

"Whereupon  I  shut  the  question-book  entirely,  and 
took  the  talking  to  myself  for  a  while. 

" '  But  I  never  thought  it  was  anything  like  that,'  in 
terrupted  little  Clo,  presently,  her  cheeks  flushed  with 
excitement.  'Why,  I  should  like  to  go,  if  it  is  like  that! 
ii.— w  43 


506  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

I  never  supposed  people  talked,  unless  it  was  about  con 
verting  people,  and  saying  your  prayers,  and  all  that.' 

"  Now,  weren't  those  ideas  alluring  and  comforting  for 
young  girls  in  the  blossom  of  warm  human  life  ?  They 
were  trying  with  all  their  little  hearts  to  '  be  good,'  too, 
some  of  them,  and  had  all  of  them  been  to  church  and 
Sunday-school  all  their  lives.  Never,  never,  if  Jesus 
Christ  had  been  Teacher  and  Preacher  to  them,  would  He 
have  pictured  their  blessed  endless  years  with  Him  in  such 
bleak  colors.  They  are  not  the  hues  of  his  Bible." 

We  took  a  trip  to-day  to  East  Homer  for  butter.  Neither 
angels  nor  principalities  could  convince  Phoebe  that  any 
butter  but  "  Stephen  David's"  might,  could,  would,  or 
should  be  used  in  this  family.  So  to  Mr.  Stephen  David's, 
a  journey  of  four  miles,  I  meekly  betake  myself  at  stated 
periods  in  the  domestic  year,  burdened  with  directions 
about  firkins  and  half-firkins,  pounds  and  half-pounds,  salt 
and  no  salt,  churning  and  "  working  over;"  some  of  which  I 
remember  and  some  of  which  I  forget,  and  to  all  of  which 
Phoebe  considers  me  sublimely  incapable  of  attending. 

The  afternoon  was  perfect,  and  we  took  things  leisurely, 
letting  the  reins  swing  from  the  hook, — an  arrangement 
to  which  Mr.  Tripp's  old  gray  was  entirely  agreeable, — 
and,  leaning  back  against  the  buggy-cushions,  wound  along 
among  the  strong,  sweet  pine-smells,  lazily  talking,  or 
lazily  silent,  as  the  spirit  moved,  and  as  only  two  people 
who  thoroughly  understand  and  like  each  other  can  talk 
or  be  silent. 

We  rode  home  by  Deacon  Quirk's,  and,  as  we  jogged 
by,  there  broke  upon  our  view  a  blooming  vision  of  the 
Deacon  himself,  at  work  in  his  potato-field  with  his  son 
and  heir,  who,  by  the  way,  has  the  reputation  of  being 
the  most  awkward  fellow  in  the  township. 


PHELPS]  DEACON  QUIRK'S  OPINIONS.  507 

The  amiable  church-officer,  having  caught  sight  of  us, 
left  his  work,  and,  coming  up  to  the  fence  "  in  rustic  mod 
esty  unscared,"  guiltless  of  coat  or  vest,  his  calico  shirt 
sleeves  rolled  up  to  his  huge  brown  elbows,  and  his  dusty 
straw  hat  flapping  in  the  wind,  rapped  on  the  rails  with 
his  hoe-handle  as  a  sign  for  us  to  stop. 

"  Are  we  in  a  hurry?"  I  asked,  under  my  breath. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Aunt  Winifred.  "  He  has  somewhat  to 
say  unto  me,  I  see  by  his  eyes.  I  have  been  expecting  it. 
Let  us  hear  him  out. — Good-afternoon,  Deacon  Quirk." 

"  Good-afternoon,  ma'am.     Pleasant  day?" 

She  assented  to  the  statement,  novel  as  it  was. 

"A  very  pleasant  day,"  repeated  the  Deacon,  looking 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  to  my  knowledge,  a  little  un 
decided  as  to  what  he  should  say  next.  "  Remarkable  fine 
day  for  riding.  In  a  hurry  ?" 

""Well,  not  especially.     Did  you  want  anything  of  me?" 

"You're  a  church-member,  aren't  you,  ma'am?"  asked 
the  Deacon,  abruptly. 

"lam." 

"  Orthodox  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  with  a  smile.    "  You  had  a  reason  for  asking  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  I  had,  as  you  might  say,  a  reason  for 
asking." 

The  Deacon  laid  his  hoe  on  the  top  of  the  fence,  and  his 
arms  across  it,  and  pushed  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head 
in  a  becoming  and  argumentative  manner. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  consider  that  I'm  taking  liberties  if 
1  have  a  little  religious  conversation  with  you,  Mrs. 
Forceythe." 

"  It  is  no  offence  to  me  if  you  are,"  replied  Mrs.  For 
ceythe,  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye ;  but  both  twinkle  ana 
words  glanced  off  from  the  Deacon. 

"  My  wife  was  telling  me  last  night,"  he  began,  with  an 


508  BEST  AMERICAN-  AUTHORS. 

ominous  cough,  "  that  her  niece,  Clotildy  Bentley, — Mosea 
Bentley's  daughter,  you  know,  and  one  of  your  bentimen- 
tal  girls,  that  reads  poetry,  and  is  easy  enough  led  away 
by  vain  delusions  and  false  doctrine, — was  under  your 
charge  at  Sunday-school.  Now,  Clotildy  is  intimate  with 
my  wife, — who  is  her  aunt  on  her  mother's  side,  and 
always  tries  to  do  her  duty  by  her, — and  she  told  Mrs. 
Quirk  what  you'd  been  a-saying  to  those  young  minds  on 
the  Sabbath." 

He  stopped,  and  observed  her  impressively,  as  if  he  ex 
pected  to  see  the  guilty  blushes  of  arraigned  heresy  cov 
ering  her  amused,  attentive  face. 

"  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me,  ma'am,  for  repeating  it, 
but  Clotildy  said  that  you  told  her  she  should  have  a 
pianna  in  heaven.  A  pianna,  ma'am !" 

"  I  certainly  did,''  she  said,  quietly. 

"  You  did  ?  Well,  now,  I  didn't  believe  it,  nor  I  wouldn't 
believe  it,  till  I'd  asked  you  1  I  thought  it  warn't  more 
than  fair  that  I  should  ask  you,  before  repeating  it,  you 
know.  It's  none  of  my  business,  Mrs.  Forceythe,  any 
more  than  that  I  take  a  general  interest  in  the  spiritooal 
welfare  of  the  youth  of  our  Sabbath-school ;  but  I  am 
very  much  surprised !  I  am  very  much  surprised  !" 

"  I  am  surprised  that  you  should  be,  Deacon  Quirk.  Do 
you  believe  that  God  would  take  a  poor  little  disappointed 
girl  like  Clo,  who  has  been  all  her  life  here  forbidden  the 
enjoyment  of  a  perfectly  innocent  taste,  and  keep  her  in 
His  happy  heaven  eternal  years  without  finding  means  to 
giatifyit?  I  don't." 

"  I  tell  Clotildy  I  don't  see  what  she  wants  of  a  pianna- 
forte,"  observed  "  Clotildy's"  uncle,  sententiously.  "  She 
can  go  to  singin'-school,  and  she's  been  in  the  choir  ever 
since  I  have,  which  is  six  years  come  Christmas.  Besides, 
I  don't  think  it's  our  place  to  speckylate  on  the  mysteries 


PBELP*]  DEACON  qUIRK'S  OPINIONS.  509 

of  the  heavenly  spere.  My  wife  told  her  that  she  mustn't 
belr.ve  any  such  things  as  that,  which  were  very  irrever- 
enfc,  and  contrary  to  the  Scriptures,  and  Clo  went  home 
wing.  She  said,  'It  was  so  pretty  to  think  about.'  It 
i  very  easy  to  impress  these  delusions  of  fancy  on  the 
oung." 

"Pray,  Deacon  Quirk,"  said  Aunt  Winifred,  leaning 
earnestly  forward  in  the  carriage,  "  will  you  tell  me  what 
there  is  '  irreverent'  or  '  unscripturaF  in  the  idea  that  there 
will  be  instrumental  music  in  heaven  ?" 

"Well,"  replied  the  Deacon,  after  some  consideration, 
"come  to  think  of  it,  there  will  be  harps,  I  suppose. 
Harpers  harping  with  their  harps  on  the  sea  of  glass. 
But  I  don't  believe  there  will  be  any  piannas.  It's  a 
dreadfully  material  way  to  talk  about  that  glorious  world, 
to  my  thinking." 

"  If  you  could  show  me  wherein  a  harp  is  less  '  material' 
than  a  piano,  perhaps  I  should  agree  with  you." 

Deacon  Quirk  looked  rather  nonplussed  for  a  minute. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  people  will  do  in  heaven  ?"  she 
asked  again. 

"  Glorify  God,"  said  the  Deacon,  promptly  recovering 
himself, — "  glorify  God,  and  sing  Worthy  the  Lamb !  We 
shall  be  clothed  in  white  robes  with  palms  in  our  hands, 
and  bow  before  the  Great  White  Throne.  We  shall  be 
engaged  in  such  employments  as  befit  sinless  creatures  in 
a  spiritooal  state  of  existence." 

"  Now,  Deacon  Quirk,"  replied  Aunt  Winifred,  looking 
him  over  from  head  to  foot, — old  straw  hat,  calico  shirt, 
blue  overalls,  and  cowhide  boots,  coarse,  work-worn  hands, 
and  "  narrow  forehead  braided  tight," — "just  imagine 
yourself,  will  you  ?  taken  out  of  this  life  this  minute,  as 
you  stand  here  in  your  potato-field"  (the  Deacon  changed 
his  position  with  evident  uneasiness),  "  and  put  into  an- 
ii.  43* 


510  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS.  [PHELPS 

other  life, — not  anybody  else,  but  yourself,  just  as  you 
left  this  spot, — and  do  you  honestly  think  that  you  should 
be  happy  to  go  and  put  on  a  white  dress  and  stand  still  in 
a  choir  with  a  green  branch  in  one  hand  and  a  singing- 
book  in  the  other,  and  sing  and  pray  and  never  do  any 
thing  but  sing  and  pray,  this  year,  next  year,  and  every 
year  forever  ?" 

"  We-ell,"  he  replied,  surprised  into  a  momentary  flash 
of  carnal  candor,  "  I  can't  say  that  I  shouldn't  wonder  for 
a  minute,  maybe,  how  Abinadab  would  ever  get  those  potatoes 
hoed  without  me. — Abinadab !  go  back  to  your  work !" 

The  graceful  Abinadab  had  sauntered  up  during  the 
conversation,  and  was  listening,  hoe  in  hand  and  mouth 
open.  He  slunk  away  when  his  father  spoke,  but  came 
up  again  presently  on  tiptoe  when  Aunt  Winifred  was 
talking.  There  was  an  interested,  intelligent  look  about 
his  square  and  pitifully-embarrassed  face,  which  attracted 
my  notice. 

"  But  then,"  proceeded  the  Deacon,  re-enforced  by  the 
sudden  recollection  of  his  duties  as  a  father  and  a  church- 
member,  "that  couldn't  be  a  permanent  state  of  feeling, 
you  know.  I  expect  to  be  transformed  by  the  renewing 
of  my  mind  to  appreciate  the  glories  of  the  New  Jerusa 
lem,  descending  out  of  heaven  from  God.  That's  what  I 
expect,  marm.  Now,  I  heerd  that  you  told  Mrs.  Bland, 
or  that  Mary  told  her,  or  that  she  heerd  it  someway,  that 
you  said  you  supposed  there  were  trees  and  flowers  and 
houses  and  such  in  heaven.  I  told  my  wife  I  thought 
your  deceased  husband  was  a  Congregational  minister, 
and  I  didn't  believe  you  ever  said  it;  but  that's  the 
rumor." 

Without  deeming  it  necessary  to  refer  to  her  "  deceased 
husband,"  Aunt  Winifred  replied  that  "rumor"  was  quite 
right. 


PHELPS]  DEACON  QUIRK'S  OPINIONS.  511 

"Well,"  said  the  Deacon,  with  severe  significance,  "I 
believe  in  a  spiritooal  heaven." 

I  looked  him  over  again, — hat,  hoe,  shirt,  and  all ; 
scanned  his  obstinate  old  face  with  its  stupid,  good  eyes 
and  animal  mouth.  Then  I  glanced  at  Aunt  Winifred  as 
she  leaned  forward  in  the  afternoon  light;  the  white, 
finely-cut  woman,  with  her  serene  smile  and  rapt,  saintly 
eyes, — every  inch  of  her,  body  and  soul,  refined  not  only 
by  birth  and  training,  but  by  the  long  nearness  of  her 
heart  to  Christ. 

"Of  the  earth,  earthy.  Of  the  heavens,  heavenly." 
The  two  faces  sharpened  themselves  into  two  types. 
Which,  indeed,  was  the  better  able  to  comprehend  a 
"  spiritooal  heaven"  ? 

"  It  is  distinctly  stated  in  the  Bible,  by  which  I  suppose 
we  shall  both  agree,"  said  Aunt  Winifred,  gently,  "that 
there  shall  be  a  new  earth,  as  well  as  new  heavens.  It  is 
noticeable,  also,  that  the  descriptions  of  heaven,  although 
a  series  of  metaphors,  are  yet  singularly  earth-like  and 
tangible  ones.  Are  flowers  and  skies  and  trees  less  '  spirit 
ual'  than  white  dresses  and  little  palm-branches  ?  In  fact, 
where  are  you  going  to  get  your  little  branches  without 
trees  ?  What  could  well  be  more  suggestive  of  material 
modes  of  living,  and  material  industry,  than  a  city  marked 
into  streets  and  alleys,  paved  solidly  with  gold,  walled  in 
and  barred  with  gates  whoee  jewels  are  named  and 
counted,  and  whose  very  length  and  breadth  are  measured 
with  a  celestial  surveyor's  chain  ?" 

"But  I  think  we'd  ought  to  stick  to  what  the  Bible 
says,"  answered  the  Deacon,  stolidly.  "  If  it  says  golden 
cities  and  doesn't  say  flowers,  it  means  cities  and  doesn't 
mean  flowers.  I  dare  say  you're  a  good  woman,  Mrs. 
Forceythe,  if  you  do  hold  such  oncommon  doctrine,  and  I 
don't  doubt  you  mean  well  enough,  but  I  don't  think  that 


512  BEST  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

we  ought  to  trouble  ourselves  about  these  mysteries  of  a 
future  state.  J'm  willing  to  trust  them  to  God  !" 

The  evasion  of  a  fair  argument  by  this  self-sufficient 
spasm  of  piety  was  more  than  I  could  calmly  stand,  and  I 
indulged  in  a  subdued  explosion, — Auntie  says  it  sounded 
like  Fourth-of-July  crackers  touched  off  under  a  wet  barrel. 

"  Deacon  Quirk !  do  you  mean  to  imply  that  Mrs.  For- 
ceythe  does  not  trust  it  to  God  ?  The  truth  is,  that  the 
existence  of  such  a  world  as  heaven  is  a  fact  from  which 
you  shrink.  You  know  you  do !  She  has  twenty  thoughts 
about  it  where  you  have  one ;  yet  you  set  up  a  claim  to 
superior  spirituality  1" 

"  Mary,  Mary,  you  are  a  little  excited,  I  fear.  God  is  a 
Spirit,  and  they  that  worship  him  must  worship  him  in 
spirit  and  in  truth!" 

The  relevancy  of  this  last  I  confess  myself  incapable  of 
perceiving,  but  the  good  man  seemed  to  be  convinced  that 
he  had  made  a  point,  and  we  rode  off  leaving  him  under 
that  blissful  delusion. 


END   OF   VOL.    II. 


L  006  212417  7 


A    001  287  707    2 


